At What Price?
by Rainey13
Summary: There's a recession on, and the economy is tough all over. But what happens when budget cuts hit a little too close to home for the White Collar unit?
1. Morning

_**A/N: This story is set after Point Blank, but it was written before the second half of Season Two airs, so all of the questions about Julian Larrsen and the mystery man behind him are still open.**_

* * *

Mornings in New York City could be magical. The sun, on its early rise, would appear, as if by magic, from beyond the man-made mountains of metal and glass that were Manhattan's skyscrapers. The glow would warm the buildings, the rays making the windows gleam like precious gems, creating a rainbow of hues from all of the multi-colored glass.

The city had a different look and feel to it in the morning. Maybe it just seemed new, and fresh, even though, as the song said, New York was truly the city that never slept. But the city crews did a good job of cleaning up, and in the early hours of the day the smog hadn't yet taken over.

Traffic was still light – well, at least what passed for light in Manhattan. That meant that if you were driving, you might get through a light in fewer than three cycles. And a driver might even have a chance to score a coveted parking place near his or her destination. Assuming, that is, that one had the financial resources to pay for it.

For most people, of course, that meant they would find other means of transportation. The closest subway stop was already teeming with activity, people jostling for position as they moved into or out of the station. The buses were already thick on the streets, resembling nothing so much as moving billboards with their brightly colored ads. You could find the latest on clothing, personal hygiene, Broadway, movies, and television. The bus directly below had an ad for a new television show, something about a paroled convict working for the government.

Reese Hughes shook his head and raised his coffee cup to his lips. The things these television people would come up with! Still, maybe he'd check it out when the show debuted. After all, he had a little experience in a similar situation. It might be interesting to see how real life compared to the fantasy sold on the tube.

The cold coffee hitting his tongue made him grimace. It wasn't just the bitter taste; no, it was also a reminder of how long he had already been in the office.

Reese took one more look out the window. This view from his corner office on the 21st floor of the federal building was usually one of his favorite things in the world, especially early in the morning. The world seemed to hold infinite possibilities when he looked out over the cityscape below him. So many people, so many hopes, so many stories to tell, so many secrets.

So many problems.

With a sigh he turned away from his window view and sat down at his desk. He had enough of his own problems today, and even the glorious view was not going to resolve a single one.

Even a fresh cup of coffee wasn't going to help, so he didn't head out to look for one. Besides, that would take him away from the phone, and the call he hoped would be coming.

Soon.

With a sigh, he turned his attention to the files on top of his desk. Budget reports - another reason this was not promising to be a good day. No one enjoyed budget meetings. _He_ didn't enjoy budget meetings. Really, how could he, in good conscience, tell his people to keep on going out there, risking their lives to protect others – oh, but do it with less equipment, fewer resources, no overtime. So yes, please make sure the bad guys confined their relevant activities to a standard forty hour week.

This budget meeting, however, showed every promise of being even worse than others in recent memory. The economy was bad. _Yes, that was actually the opening line in the memo from headquarters last week._ Well, yes, everyone knew the economy was bad. Every day the headlines screamed from the newspapers, the radio, the television, the internet. Hell, it showed up on his smart phone now that his granddaughter had shown him how to program it. Unemployment was up, inflation was up, retail sales were down, consumer confidence was down, the national debt had spiraled into an astronomical figure he could barely even comprehend.

Yes, that was the setting he had to contend with to go in and discuss the coming year's budget with his senior agents.

It was enough to make him question why he was even still there, reaching for the antacids before the day had even really begun. He'd reached retirement age, been offered his severance package – and then had been asked back, courtesy of a loophole in the federal employment law.

He'd said yes, for a variety of reasons. His wife was gone, lost to cancer some three years before, their plans to travel thus quashed before they even began. His children were all grown, independent, on their own. And while he loved his grandchildren, doted on them when they were together, he couldn't imagine making that the sole focus of his life; he was pretty sure his children wouldn't appreciate it either.

Plus, he was good at what he did – he _liked_ what he did. He'd started under the Hoover regime – a different world, a very different time. The paranoia of the Nixon years, giving way to promises of change, and star wars defenses. Wars in the Gulf, contras. Promises of hope, dark realities of war, more hope.

_Which promise of hope were they on by now anyway?_

And, of course, the growth of terrorism factored in there as well. It had seemed so distant, so foreign at first. It was bombs and rifle attacks in Belfast; with half of his heritage on the Irish side, it was painful, but not personal. Suicide attacks in Israel, Egypt, Saudi Arabia. Again, sad, but not personal.

That day in September 2001 had made it personal.

Terrorism had come to America with a bang, quite literally. He remembered the day so clearly, the plumes of dark smoke visible from the offices, the sirens overwhelming everything else in the city. The haze, the smoke and debris turning the day – days – a dark gray.

That had been right around the first time he'd considered retiring. But how could he walk away then, when the country – _his_ country – needed help so desperately. Rachel had been disappointed, but she had agreed that he still had work to do.

So many people made sacrifices, in so many ways.

And so he'd worked counter-terrorism for a while, before making his way back to his first, and best, calling. White collar. He'd cut his teeth on white collar crimes, made his mark taking down the embezzlers and swindlers and forgers of the world – or at least those who were foolish enough to ply their trade in New York. And even though his duties now were mostly administrative, he liked to think he still had something to offer.

Something more than running budget meetings.

Reese's eyes moved to a blue folder on the edge of his desk. That, more than anything, had brought him in so early this morning. It had been messengered to his house at 11:00 last night. Eyes Only, highly private, urgent.

_And it made him even less anxious than usual to head into this meeting. There had to be some mistake._

He stared at the phone – the _silent_ phone – again, willing it to ring. But it remained stubbornly, mockingly silent.

And yes, he knew it was early in Washington too, but if someone had been up late to produce that memo, it seemed like someone should be up early as well to answer questions.

He had lots of questions.

And if the answers weren't forthcoming, or if they weren't the answers he wanted – needed…

Well, he didn't even want to think about it.

* * *

Neal wrapped the tie around his neck as he moved to answer the knock on his door. He wasn't surprised to find Peter standing there, hand upraised in preparation for knocking again. Actually, if it had been anyone _other_ than Peter, that would have been the surprise.

"Morning, Peter." He stepped aside, letting the other man in.

Peter's face held an amused expression as he contemplated his partner. "Looking a little rough this morning, aren't you?" The younger man's feet were bare, his hair looking windswept – or maybe just sleep swept.

Neal tapped the watch on his wrist. "You're seventeen minutes early."

"And what, you can't rush perfection."

Neal flashed his fanciest grin. "Absolutely not." He gestured toward the patio. "I suppose since you're here, you could have a cup of coffee while I get ready."

Peter smiled – a look of pure innocence and discovery. "Why, that's a marvelous idea!"

"Yeah, so glad I thought of it," Neal intoned dryly, watching as the agent made his way out to the patio and the promised coffee.

_As if Peter didn't show up at least a few minutes early nearly every day. And if, by chance, he didn't, Neal took a cup for him to go._

While Peter settled in at the table, inhaling deeply over a steaming mug, Neal buttoned his collar and finished a neat knot in his tie. Then he sat down on the bed and reached for his socks. The right one slipped on easily; the left one, not so much. He had to work it under the tracking anklet, a maneuver that still took a bit of time, even after all the experience he'd had. But he had discovered that if he didn't get the sock positioned just right, with no wrinkles, he would wind up with chafing on his ankle later. He went through enough lotion down there anyway without asking for more trouble.

With the sock finally positioned, he pulled his shoes on and glanced at his watch. Still a few minutes to go, and time for another cup of coffee.

He wandered out to the patio, shrugging his innocence as he found Peter staring at him. "What? Is my fly open?" He knew it wasn't, so he didn't even bother to look.

Peter shook his head. "No, no. You're impeccably dressed, as always."

"Then what's that smile for?"

"Just amazement, Caffrey. Doesn't matter how long you've been here, I just can't quite make it work in my mind. How you go from prison to a mansion, with servants…"

"The servants are June's."

"So they didn't bring the coffee and rolls up here for you?"

"Of course they did." In fact, he had a theory that the staff had been told to listen for the sound of his shower starting, and then bring up the morning's refreshments. One of these days maybe he'd check that out. Start the shower, but not actually get in, just watch…

Then again, it didn't really matter as long as the excellent brew continued to show up. And there was no sense tempting fate.

"I think that makes my point," Peter replied.

"I'd say I earn my keep," Neal replied, pouring his coffee. "I keep the Jag and the Bentley polished."

"And maybe test drive them now and then?"

"No law against that."

"There is if you don't have a license."

"I have a license."

"A _legal_ license, Neal."

Neal scowled at him, sipping at his coffee. Then his scowl turned to a grin. "As a matter of fact, I have a legal license. Tested for it last month."

Peter coughed, spitting coffee off to one side. "What? How did you do that?"

Neal wrinkled his nose and grabbed a napkin to brush a few drops off his pants leg. "Jones took me. That day you and Diana had to go to Albany to testify on something."

"Something? You mean that domestic terrorism case we helped bust open?"

"Before my time, Peter," Neal replied. "And you won't talk about it much."

Deflecting that, Peter pressed his previous point. "So, this license. It's in your real name?"

"Really, Peter, what's in a name?" Neal raised his hands in mock surrender at the look on the other man's face. "Yes, my real name. I took the written test and the road test. Got 100% too. You see, I happen to be a very good driver, unlike some people…"

"I'm a good driver."

"You tend to take your eyes off the road."

"I do not."

"And your hands off the wheel."

"I…" Peter's denial caught in his throat. "Only when you're in the car."

"I'm not sure it's comforting to know that I'm the only one you're trying to kill."

"Caffrey…"

"Anyway," Neal cut in. "I do other things around here, like watch June's granddaughter."

"Which one? Cindy, the… art student?" Peter's hands made a curvy figure in the air.

"I help her with her technique."

Peter choked on the roll he had just taken a bite of. "_What_ technique?"

"Brush strokes," Neal said simply. "But Samantha is also here a lot when her parents have to work. She's still limited in what she can do after the surgery, so if June has to go out, I watch movies with her, or play games." Neal held up a finger, stopping Peter's next question. "Board games, Peter. Appropriate for pre-teens."

"How's she doing?"

"Really well. No sign of rejection of the kidney yet."

"Well, that's good."

"Yeah, a good outcome." Neal took another sip of coffee, studying Peter over the rim of the cup. "Maybe I can find another case to run with."

"Run? Oh, no. You could have died at that clinic, Neal."

"I knew you had my back."

That deflated Peter's objections, at least for the moment. Neal always had a way of cutting though his defenses. "Yeah, well, what I've got right now is a need to get to the office. Drink up and let's go."

Neal did as requested, draining his cup. "I don't know why you even need me there today, if you're just going to be in a budget meeting all day."

"Oh, I have something special in mind for you."

_Oh, that didn't sound good._ "Peter, if you're planning to dump a stack of cold case mortgage fraud cases on my desk…"

"No, no mortgage fraud."

The look on Peter's face was a little too smug for Neal's liking. "Then what?" he asked cautiously.

"A stakeout, with Jones and Diana."

"The van? Peter…"

"Want the cold case files instead?"

That was actually something of a close call. "I'll take the stakeout. At least Jones hates deviled ham as much as I do, and Diana…"

"No flirting with her."

"What?"

"She doesn't like it when you flirt with her." He held Neal's jacket out.

Neal took the jacket and shrugged into it. "She likes the flirting just fine."

"Neal, you know she's…"

"A lesbian. Yeah, I know. It doesn't mean she hates the flirting."

"She says she does."

"Peter, this is Diana we're talking about." Neal grinned and rolled his hat onto his head. "If she really didn't like it, she would have hurt me by now."

With no reasonable reply to counter that argument, Peter just shrugged in a sign of reluctant acceptance. He opened the door and the two men made their way out.


	2. Stakeout

The 21st floor was abuzz with activity when Peter and Neal arrived. With Hughes running the meeting, the conference room on that floor had been chosen to host the budgetary discussion. Agents, many of them from different units, milled about, waiting for the meeting to start.

Neal recognized a few of them. Ruiz, from Organized Crime – not one of his favorite people. Still, the man had been a bit more civil since Neal had uncovered a lead that had given OC a high profile arrest. Blakely, from the technology crimes section. _According to Mozzie, the man really needed to upgrade his own firewall defense. Not that Neal planned to mention it to the man._ And that was Lake, from Counter Terrorism by the break room. A surprising number of their white collar cases wound up developing information that got passed on to CT.

_White collar crimes used to be simpler, cleaner._ _The money from the thefts simply went to the perpetrator's pocket, not off to be funneled to some terrorist group to buy guns or explosives._

Peter greeted a few other agents Neal didn't know, and then they stopped by Diana's desk. Jones had pulled his chair up and the two of them were reviewing a report on the computer monitor.

Diana looked up as they approached. "Hey, boss. Neal."

"Diana, Jones." Peter leaned in, looking at the screen. "Anything new?"

Jones shook his head. "Best information is still that the drop will go down today, most likely at that convenience store where Polson's cousin works."

"Well, I hope it works out," the senior agent said. "You can brief Neal on the way over."

"Can't wait," Neal said, a little too brightly.

Jones grinned. "Come on, Caffrey. What could be better? You get to spend the day with us in the van! My wit, Diana's charm…"

"No deviled ham?" Neal asked, pointedly staring at Peter.

Jones grimaced and shook his head. "Definitely not."

Peter scowled at all of them. "I know what you're all getting in your Christmas stockings," he muttered.

Diana laughed and locked her screen. "I think that might be considered cruel and unusual," she said as she stood up, grabbing her jacket. "Come on, Neal." They started toward the door as she continued. "It's over four months until Christmas. Hopefully he'll forget by then."

"I heard that," Peter called. He took Jones by the elbow, lowering his voice. "You're all right with this?"

"What, having Caffrey with us? Yeah, not a problem."

"If he tries anything…"

"He won't. I mean, he'll probably try to flirt with Diana."

"She'd hurt him if she really minded," Peter said, trying out Neal's theory.

Jones grinned. "Yeah, I know she would." He grabbed a file from his desk. "Have fun with the budget meeting, Peter."

Peter watched the younger agent leave, surprised a bit by the feeling it left him with.

_Jealousy._

He'd even forego the deviled ham to be heading for that van, and not the damn budget meeting.

* * *

The problem with the van, Neal decided, was that there wasn't even really room to spin in your chair properly. Not without hitting the other occupants, anyway, and that was rarely a good idea in his experience. Especially since they had guns.

It was just that stakeouts were so… boring.

That was especially true when they were after a low-level art thief. The crimes showed a distinct lack of imagination and panache. Really, how could you take someone seriously who broke into the homes of some nouveaux rich people and took works by artists who might – _might_ – be famous someday.

All right, from his new found perspective on the badge side of the law, home invasions were bad. So far the suspect had hit places that were empty, but if the guy got that wrong, and someone was home… well, that could end badly.

Still, if you were going to go to the trouble of breaking in somewhere, at least go after the _good_ stuff…

"Yo, Caffrey!"

Neal turned around, finding both Jones and Diana smiling at him. "Zoned out?" he guessed.

"Big time." Jones pointed at the file in front of Neal's place. "Any insight on this Polson guy?"

Neal shrugged. "Beyond the fact that he obviously has no style?"

Diana grinned. "You mean you're not expecting him to send champagne to the surveillance van?"

"Now _that_ requires a certain very special type of style," Neal replied, returning the grin.

Jones shook his head. "I can't believe you did that, man."

"Allegedly," Neal pointed out.

"The note had your name on it from what I heard," Diana said.

"Circumstantial. That could easily have been a forgery."

"Yeah, right," Jones laughed. "So, Polson?"

Neal sighed and flipped the file open. "Lionel Polson. Age fifty three, former construction worker, injured on the job." He closed the file and looked up. "This guy is not a professional. That's obvious from the places he hits and the type of art he takes. That all points toward desperation."

Diana was nodding. "Injured, can't find a job. He has a wife, and three children under the age of ten."

"So he turns to a life of crime," Jones said. "Kind of sad. But we need to catch him before anything escalates."

"Agreed." Neal looked back over at the monitor. "So, we hope that this fence Polson called shows up."

Jones looked at his notes. "Yeah, this guy, The Arranger. Know anything about him?"

Neal shook his head. "My… source hasn't found anyone who even knows what the guy looks like." He pulled out his phone, looking to see if he had missed a call from Mozzie, but there was nothing.

"I would have thought you'd know all the fences," Diana said.

"Oh, please." Neal pointed at the monitor. "Look at this place. Any items I may _allegedly_ have acquired would not be handled by anyone with a comic book nickname and in this part of town."

Jones leaned toward Diana. "You forgot about the _style_ part."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right."

Neal huffed in mock exasperation. "Make fun if you will," he warned. "But style points do count for something."

Diana shook her head and rolled her chair closer to the supply box. In theory it was where they kept important things like pens and note pads and other things that might come in handy during a long stakeout. In practice, however, it generally held something even more important.

Snacks.

She rummaged for a moment and then sat back, shaking her head sadly. "That's all the crap stuff left, and not even much of it. Wonder why someone didn't refill it."

"We lost our driver to one of the visiting Homeland Security bigwigs," Jones said. "I think it's the drivers who usually do that when they're getting the van ready."

"Well, you were the driver today," Neal pointed out, trying once more to get a good chair spin in. "Are you saying you let us down?"

Jones shook his head. "Nope, I think I just remembered the other rule. Seems like if there's a _consultant_ riding along on the stakeout, he's supposed to fill the box."

Neal kept his face perfectly composed, playing along. "No. No, I've been reading the manuals, and I can definitely say I have not seen that rule in any of the books."

"You've been reading the manuals?" Diana laughed. "Must have too much time on your hands."

Jones nodded in agreement. "I think it was a new rule anyway. Maybe you had an older version of the manual."

"Hey, you big, important _agents_ get paid way more than poor lowly consultants like me!" Neal protested.

"Yeah, that's why your shoes cost more than my whole outfit," Diana grumbled.

"That just goes back to the style question," Neal replied.

"Uh huh. How about that bottle of wine you opened last week when we were reviewing some files at your place? I liked it, so I went looking for it." Jones shook his head in amazement. "I'd have to hock my first born!"

Neal just raised an eyebrow. "You don't have any children."

"Well, my potential first born then. Geez, I'm hocking my unborn children before I've even had a chance to meet their potential mother!"

"I know where you can get the wine at wholesale," Neal offered.

"Seriously? Like, legally?"

Neal gave in and laughed. "Yes, legally. I know the importer."

"Well, maybe…"

Diana sighed and stood up. "Well, while you boys discuss wine, which we can't have on the stakeout, I am starving. I'm making a junk food run, so if you want something special speak now, or live with what I buy."

"Chocolate," Neal said immediately. "Pretty much anything chocolate, the darker the better."

"Yeah, chocolate's good," Jones agreed. "But something salty too. Maybe get some chips or pretzels or something."

"All right, salty and sweet. I can do that. Besides, it'll give me a chance to get eyes inside the store. We've only seen the plans."

"Yeah, kind of hard just seeing the outside. But since the place is owned by a relative of the suspect, they couldn't really ask to put up cameras," Jones pointed out.

"We could have gotten cameras in there," Neal said. "It would have been easy to…"

"Legally?" Diana challenged.

"Might be a gray area," Neal acknowledged.

"Well, then, I guess it's up to me to get eyes inside, make sure everything's covered." She stopped at the back door and looked back. "Be good while I'm gone, boys."

Neal got to his feet and pulled the door shut, watching as Diana crouched low, hurrying along the street side of some cars parked behind the van. Three cars down she stood up straight and moved to the sidewalk, walking toward the store as if she had been on the pedestrian way all the time.

_He really would have gone in to get the junk food, after the little debate. Those debates made life in the van tolerable after all. Still, it was fun to watch the others in action too._

_Maybe he'd buy lunch for them a little later. He knew this perfect Asian fusion restaurant, and for a fee they'd deliver…_

* * *

"Hey, Reese…"

"Later, Peter."

Peter stared after his boss, more than a little puzzled. It wasn't like Hughes to brush anyone off like that; in fact, as he thought about it, Peter truly could not remember the last time he'd witnessed such a display. And certainly it had been a _very_ long time since it had happened to him.

Curious, he stepped out onto the walkway outside the conference room, watching as the older man stalked quickly toward his office, entered, and slammed the door.

Feeling more than a little guilty, Peter followed, trying for his best nonchalant demeanor. He wasn't exactly sure what he thought he'd find out – or even if he wanted to find anything out. This was, after all, his boss they were dealing with.

Everyone knew that the Special Agent in Charge of the New York office had more than enough on his plate at any given time. The very fact that it was New York, home to so many, symbol to so many more, added exponentially to the headaches Hughes suffered here compared to those of the SAC in, say, Omaha; the headaches here were many times magnified. And the current economic situation certainly hadn't helped in that regard. The White Collar division was seeing a drastic increase in cases being reported – but more of the small time efforts like his team was investigating today. People stealing art, or embezzling money, not so much to make a fortune but, rather, just to make ends meet. The sheer volume of cases threatened to overwhelm the agents available to investigate them.

Still, they had faced budgetary cuts before, and high case volumes. And Peter wasn't convinced that either of those reasons alone could really explain the way Hughes was acting in the budget meeting.

Oh, no one expected frivolity and light banter; no, this was serious business. But Hughes seemed even crankier than normal at one of these meetings and… what? More distracted. Anxious even. As if waiting for something else to happen.

Peter stopped just short of the corner office. He loved a lot of things about this office suite, but the huge volume of glass did not lend itself to stealth. Maybe the designers hadn't intended that to be a necessary attribute _inside_ the FBI offices…

Sometimes they were wrong.

Fortunately, he knew from experience (because Neal had told him) that this particular spot could not be seen from inside the SAC's office. _And Neal never had explained just how he had come to discover that little tidbit of information, or why he had bothered to find out…_

Peter glanced around, satisfying himself that no one was paying undue attention to him. _And why should they? He was taking a break from the deadly boring budget meeting, just like everyone else._ He leaned his head back against the wall.

He could make out Hughes' voice, raised and angry. No one else had gone into the office, so the other man must be on the phone. Unfortunately, he couldn't really make out more than a word here and there – unjustified, unrealistic, short-sighted.

Stupid.

_Stupid?_ Peter smiled slightly, wondering who or what Reese Hughes was discussing that would lead him to use that word in a professional setting.

He wondered if it had anything to do with the mysterious folders Hughes had brought into the conference room. He hadn't passed them out, merely alluded to the fact that there was a new directive they'd be discussing later.

He heard the phone slam down, and he jumped involuntarily. It was probably time to just give up this chase before he got caught spying. The bad mood either had something to do with the mysterious budget documents, in which case he'd find out later today. Or the mood was unrelated to the day's meeting, in which case he'd find out some other time, one way or the other.

Peter made his way back along the walkway and then downstairs, glancing at his watch as he went. Time enough for a quick bio break, and then a cup of coffee from the shop in the lobby, before walking back into the lion's den that was the budget meeting.

He briefly considered calling his agents to see how the surveillance was going, but decided against it. It was a fairly straight forward case, and Jones and Diana were good, experienced agents.

Even with Caffrey in tow, what could go wrong?

* * *

"Uh oh."

Neal slid his chair over next to Jones, looking at the monitor. "What?"

Jones pointed at a car that had just pulled into the tow away zone in front of the store. It was big, black, shiny, and new – and the three men getting out all had suspicious bulges under their jackets. He pointed at the third man, the last to get out of the car – and the one the other two seemed to defer to. "Know who that is?"

Neal shook his head. "Should I?"

"Tommy Angelos. Youngest son and chief enforcer for Eduardo Angelos."

"Now him I've heard of. Controls a lot of the dock work, right?"

"Yeah." Jones looked over at Neal, eyebrow raised. "Now how does a stylish criminal…"

"Alleged. Stylish, yes, but alleged on the criminal."

"_Alleged_ criminal like you know Eduardo?"

Neal shrugged. "I may have heard about someone who had to deal with him to get certain goods shipped out of the country."

"Ever meet him?"

"No. My _friend_ always worked through intermediaries. Better that way."

"Yeah," Jones agreed. "Think he's this Arranger guy?"

Neal shook his head. "Not likely. Fencing is a fairly specialized skill – not the same as breaking legs and extorting cash. Then again, anyone who takes a name like the Arranger… who knows?"

"Doesn't feel right," Jones said. "More likely a shakedown for protection money." He paused, shaking his head. "I don't like that Diana is in there alone. She doesn't know."

The three men were still standing by the car, gesturing and pointing toward the store.

Jones tuned to Neal, his expression clearly frustrated. "Look, I worked some cases with Organized Crime, and I crossed paths with Tommy. He could recognize me."

Neal nodded, reaching for his jacket. "No problem. I'll go."

"Just make sure Diana knows what's going on," Jones warned. "If these guys are just here for protection money, they probably don't want any complications."

"Got it." Neal loosened his tie and ruffled his hair a little, more in keeping with the neighborhood than the full spit and polish look. He started for the door, but Jones grabbed his arm.

Sighing, the agent reached down and pulled a small automatic out of his ankle holster. "Take this," he said. "Just in case."

Neal looked at the gun, his distaste written clearly on his face. "I'm really not a gun guy."

"Yeah, I know," Jones said, still holding out the gun. "But there are three of them, all obviously packing." Neal still made no move to take the weapon, so Jones played another card. "So how do you feel about being dead?"

"I like guns better than being dead," Neal admitted.

"And Diana's in there."

"I like guns better than Diana being dead too." Neal reached out and carefully took the pistol, checked that the safety was on, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "But if it comes down to me using this, you better have a backup plan."

Jones nodded, reaching for the phone. "I'm going to drop a call to the local precinct. I'm sure Tommy's boys all have permits for those guns, but it can't hurt to check." He started to dial before continuing. "Just get Diana out, or at least make sure she knows what's going on."

"Right."

Neal stepped out into the street, silently closing the van door behind him. He crouched down, much as Diana had, using the cars to cover him as he moved away from the store. Then he stepped onto the sidewalk.

He had to pause a moment to adjust his jacket – the weight of the gun made it feel like it was hanging all wrong. Then he started for the corner store.

The three men preceded him inside, the bell over the door jangling as they entered. He hurried forward, catching the door before it could close, and slipped inside.

The juxtaposition for the sunlight outdoors to the dim light inside the shop took a moment to get used to. He could see the three men moving toward the counter to his left, so he went the other way, moving quickly but silently in front of the window.

There were only a handful of aisles. The first one had various medicines, paper goods, and a smattering of auto essentials. The second aisle was canned goods. The third had diapers and baby goods.

He found her in the fourth aisle, filling a small basket with assorted snacks.

She looked up as he stepped closer, obvious surprise in her eyes.

He managed to stop any questions, shaking his head firmly and putting a finger to his lips. "Trouble," he whispered as he got close.

"The fence?" she whispered back, her lips nearly touching his ear.

He shook his head, his cheek brushing against her hair. "Tommy Angelos."

"The mob enforcer?"

"Probably a shakedown. Jones is calling the police."

"We could take them…"

"Technically, they haven't done anything," Neal pointed out. It was somewhat amusing that the words were coming from his mouth.

Diana nodded, reluctantly conceding the point. She started to say something else, but just then heavy footsteps came into the aisle.

Neal stood up quickly, one arm going around Diana's waist as he took the basket with his other hand. "Now, honey, I think you've got plenty here," he said, smiling as he led her boldly toward the heavyset man at the end of the aisle.

The man crossed his arms, clearly showing the outline of the gun under his jacket, but he made no move to stop them as they went.

Walking up to the counter, Neal studiously ignored Tommy Angelos and the other man with him, addressing the rather terrified looking man behind the counter. "Well, I think this will do," he said, putting the basket up. "Kind of a strange combination, I know," he added, smiling and moving his now free hand to Diana's stomach. "But my wife is eating for three now."

Diana nodded, playing along. "We're having twins. We just found out. And uh... cravings!"

It was Angelos who responded, something resembling a smile crossing his face. "Got three kids myself," he said.

"These will be our first," Neal said, friendly as he could be. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash. "You just tell me what we owe," he added, addressing the man behind the counter.

The man's hands were shaking as he started to scan the snacks Diana had collected. It took multiple tries to get some of the items into a bag.

Neal stole a glance out the window; no squad car yet. _And no way he could think of to safely let the man know that relief was coming – at least a temporary reprieve. Especially since the third man had come back up front. Hopefully they'd at least bought a little time, and Jones had the police on the way._

Neal paid the total and took the bag. "Have a good day now," he said, smiling and giving a friendly nod. Then he took Diana's arm, as a loving husband and father to be would, and led her toward the door.

Once outside, he turned to the side, pressing her back against the wall as he looked back inside. "If we actually see them do something to that guy, we can arrest them, right?"

"I can arrest them," Diana said, reaching for Neal's jacket collar and spinning him so that his back was against the wall and she was looking in. "I'm the one with the badge and the gun."

_Well, he might have to concede the badge part…_ "I have a gun."

"What?"

"Jones gave me his backup." He shook his jacket pocket, demonstrating the weight.

"Jones _gave_ you the gun?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes," Neal insisted. "He wasn't going to let me out of the van otherwise."

"Why didn't he come?"

"He said he crossed paths with Angelos a couple of times, and the guy might make him."

"So you with a gun is supposed to make me feel safer?"

"Well, that was the general idea."

"Hmmmm."

"Anything yet?"

"No, they're just talking so far."

Neal stiffened, listening. "Someone's coming," he whispered. He wrapped an arm around Diana's waist and pulled her in, his lips closing over hers. It only took a moment for her to realize the situation and lean into him.

_And it felt like her tongue was reaching right down his throat…_

The voices came closer, and Neal let his eyes follow the two teenage girls who came into view, walking a Chihuahua between them. They giggled as they passed the kissing couple, but kept on going.

When the girls were well past, Neal reluctantly pulled away, breathing hard. "They're gone," he managed to say. "Good cover."

"You were just looking for an excuse to do that," Diana accused, breathing a little harder than usual herself.

_Well, yeah, but it wasn't like he was actually going to admit it…_

She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. "You're sure the gun is in your _pocket_?"

He was saved from having to make any reply by the arrival of a squad car. "I think that's our cue to go," he said, leading her toward the van.

"We can pass the information on to Ruiz. Let him know that Angelos is collecting here."

"Good idea."

They reached the back of the van and Neal opened the door, letting Diana in. He handed the bag of snacks up to her, climbed in, and pulled the door shut.

Jones was grinning at both of them. "I thought maybe you should just get a room," he said.

"There was someone coming," Neal objected.

"Yeah, those girls looked pretty dangerous," Jones teased. "And that Chihuahua…"

The bag of pretzels Diana threw at him hit him right in the mouth, cutting off any more talk.

"Good shot," Neal said approvingly, clapping his hands a few times. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the gun, holding it gingerly in two fingers. "Glad I didn't need this."

"You and me both," Jones agreed, sliding the weapon back into the ankle holster. He went back to trying to get the pretzel bag open.

"Thanks for the trust though," Neal said quietly.

Jones looked up, all serious for the moment. "No problem," he said. "You've earned that, especially these last few months."

* * *

The lunch break was another episode in frustration as far as Peter was concerned. As soon as he called the recess, Hughes made a beeline for his office, ignoring all pleas to stop. A walk down through the bullpen, and a casual glance up to the corner office, showed the SAC on the phone again, gesturing angrily, definitely not happy.

Peter's thoughts again went to the mysterious folders sitting on the table in the conference room. He couldn't shake the feeling that this odd behavior was related somehow. And since he relied heavily on those gut feelings in his work, and found that he was right far more often than he was wrong, it was a pretty good bet that he was right about those folders.

_If Neal was here, he'd come up with some diversion plan, keep everyone occupied while he snuck a peek at the contents of those folders._

_But that would be bad – very bad, to go behind his boss's back like that._

_On the other hand, the files were in the conference room, and obviously intended to be discussed at some point. He could hear Neal's voice in his ear, arguing that a little sneak peek wasn't really wrong, it was just getting the information a little early…_

"Geez, Burke, your boy Caffrey just can't stay out of my business, can he."

Peter turned, looking at Ruiz. "Excuse me?" _What has Neal done now?"_

Ruiz waved his cell phone. "Just got a call from your man, Jones. Seems he and Caffrey identified one of my main projects, Tommy Angelos, during the stakeout they're on. Caffrey had to go in and get your other agent out."

Peter was really trying to remain very calm. "Anyone hurt?"

"Nah, no shots fired. Your people didn't interfere. Just called the locals to come and put a little scare into Tommy."

"Well, that's a relief." Inside, Peter breathed a _big _sigh of relief.

"Messes up my life," Ruiz countered.

"How's that?"

"It's new territory for Angelos and his people. Now we've got them running protection rackets in an even bigger area."

"Guess the economy's tough on everyone," Peter remarked dryly. "Even the mob guys have to expand to keep up with expenses."

Ruiz laughed, but there was no humor behind it. "Yeah, right."

Peter reached over and cuffed the other agent on the shoulder. "Job security, Ruiz."

"That why you keep Caffrey around? Your own job security?"

"With Caffrey around, I have a higher closure rate than I've ever had," Peter pointed out. "So yeah, I guess you could call that job security."

"Yeah, well, now he's giving me more work. Is he going to help me close cases too?"

"Are you asking for his help?"

Ruiz grinned and shook his head. "Nah, not yet anyway. I still have a few competent _real_ agents to work on this." He paused, shrugged. "I'm a big enough man to admit though that I might have been wrong about Caffrey."

"What? Do my ears deceive me?"

"Oh, can it, Burke! I'm not saying I approve bringing a convicted felon so deep into the bureau, but I have to admit, he's done some decent work."

_Neal had done some __brilliant__ work – but right now, he'd settle for decent, coming from Ruiz._ "Gonna tell him that?"

Ruiz scowled. "Don't push it."

Peter gave the other agent a measured smile. "A lot more criminals than there are of us, George. I'll take all the help I can get."

Ruiz nodded slowly in agreement. "I'm gonna get a couple of people on this," he said, waving the phone again. "Before it's back into the breach."

"Yeah. I'd rather be getting a root canal," Peter muttered.

"In the middle of a shootout," Ruiz added. "See you in a bit."

Peter watched the other agent leave, and then he pulled out his own phone, hitting a speed dial number as he did. "Hey, Jones! Just checking in. How's it going? Oh yeah? No fence yet, huh? So what's this about Tommy Angelos? So you and Neal… Uh huh. And why didn't you… Oh, yeah, good call. Angelos could have made you. Right. But Neal and Diana got out clean? Uh huh… He did what?" Peter paused, squeezing the bridge of his nose against a sudden headache. "Please tell me there was no bloodshed. Uh huh… She what? Uh, yeah, go ahead. I'll talk to you later."

Peter stared at his phone for a moment, considering the laughter coming from the other end, before snapping it off.

_Oh, he really was so jealous…_


	3. It Begins

Neal was taking his turn, trying to be very agent-like and actually keep his attention on the monitor. _After all, it wasn't all that long ago that no one would have trusted him to watch the video feed. He liked the trust, and didn't want to screw it up. So if that meant staring at a flickering screen, and actually paying attention, he could do that. Hell, he could do pretty much anything he ever set his mind on._

"Uh… hey." He straightened up in his chair, pointing at the screen. "I think that's Polson."

Jones and Diana crowded in close over his shoulder. "Looks like it," Jones agreed.

"And that case is about the right size for the art," Diana pointed out.

"He looks nervous enough too," Neal said. "Amateur."

"Well, they can't all be as cool as you when meeting a fence," Jones said with a grin.

"Allegedly," Neal added. "Allegedly meeting with a fence. And if I ever had done something like that, I would definitely not have been so obviously nervous."

"Probably wouldn't have done it at a corner convenience store either," Diana guessed.

Neal's answer was emphatic. "Now _that_ goes without saying."

Jones leaned in closer, pointing at the screen. "That car is slowing down."

"Third time going by too," Neal confirmed.

Diana stared at him. "You didn't say anything?"

Neal just shrugged. "Twice, could be the guy is just lost. Three times, probably not." He took a turn pointing to the screen. "Stopping, just around the corner."

Jones pulled a chair closer. "OK, now we need to watch for something that looks like an exchange."

"I hope he's got all the art with him," Diana said, leaning closer. "I'd like to wrap this up."

"Well, at least I don't think we have to worry about forgeries," Neal said brightly.

"Not good enough?" Jones guessed.

"These artists aren't well known enough to make it worthwhile," Neal replied. "It has nothing to do with being good."

"Think these artists have a chance of getting there?" Diana asked.

Neal shrugged. "From the photos of the missing art… maybe. The Kendalls are pretty good landscapes. But Bryson? Doesn't really have the technique to be one of the greats."

Jones looked over at him. "What about this Neal Caffrey guy? He have the technique to be one of the greats?"

Diana nodded. "Yeah, when do we get to see an original Caffrey work, other than a sketch?"

"Copying is easier," Neal said, not really answering.

But Diana refused to be put off so easily. "Come on, Neal. You should do a painting. I mean, I've seen your sketches. That bridge scene you did in the hotel was brilliant. You should paint it."

"Maybe someday," Neal said, his voice vague. Then he looked at the monitor again and groaned. "No. No, not the exchange from an open car trunk!"

Jones laughed as he checked to make sure his weapon was ready. "Face it, my man. Not everyone can have the _style_ thing going."

"Obviously not," Neal grumbled.

"All right, Jones and I will handle the takedown," Diana said, her voice all authority now. "I don't think we'll have any trouble with these two, but you need to monitor closely. You know what to do if the bust goes bad?"

Neal saluted and pointed at the phone. "9-1-1. I got it."

Diana nodded to Jones and they headed for the door. "Let's do it."

* * *

Peter stared at the file in shock, barely even hearing Hughes still speaking at the front of the room.

_No, this couldn't be for real. There was no way this could be happening. Didn't people realize what they had here? How much they had accomplished – and could accomplish in the future? And what about the promises that had been made…_

His hand shot straight up into the air, daring Hughes to ignore him.

And finally, the older man had no choice. "Yes, Peter."

"This has to be a mistake."

Hughes sighed. "It was messengered to my house, late last night, direct from Quantico. I don't think it's a mistake."

"Then they don't understand the repercussions," Peter continued. "They can't."

Blakely cleared his throat. "Seems pretty clear to me," he said. "The discretionary fund for confidential informants gets limits. We know the economy means less money, and the cuts have to come somewhere."

Peter glared at the man, taking a personal victory when the other man looked back down at the folder on the table. "Our CIs get results. If we can't pay them…"

"It doesn't say that, Burke," one of the other agents argued. "It just puts limits on what can be paid to each CI. This makes…"

Another glare, and the speaker shut up. "This includes consultants," Peter said, almost too quietly for those who knew him.

Hughes sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Yes, Peter, I know that."

"What about Caffrey?"

Hughes dropped into a chair before answering. "As of January 1, there is no money to continue his position here."

Peter forced himself to take a deep breath before speaking. "To continue his position? You mean his position helping us clear more cases than we've ever cleared before? His position where we ask him to put his life on the line, with no training and no weapon? His position that he's in because of promises that were made on both sides?" His voice was rising, and he finally had to take a breath.

Hughes stood up and leaned across the table. "I understand all of that, Peter. Believe it or not, I can read and comprehend. I think there are still a lot of open questions on this." He took a deep breath, retaking control of himself and the meeting. "We'll discuss specifics later. Now, does anyone _else_ have questions?"

Silence hung heavily around the room, and to Peter it felt like a weight pressing down on his shoulders.

"All right, let's call it a day," Hughes said wearily. "Recommendations for your departments, based on what we've covered today, are due back to me no later than the fifteenth. And please, have mercy on an old man and get them in early if possible."

The room came alive then, as the agents stood, gathered their files and assorted coffee mugs and soda bottles, and then filed out…

All except one.

Peter waited for the last person to leave, and then he closed the door before turning to face Hughes. "Reese…"

Hughes held up a hand, shaking his head. "Peter, I don't know. I don't know why this decision was made, or who made it. I told you, I just found out late last night myself. And I've been trying to get answers all day, with no luck."

_Well, that explained all the phone calls._ "Reese, someone has to listen. We've made a deal with Caffrey, a commitment. He's more than lived up to his end." _Well, a few hiccups here and there, but that wasn't important now._ "How…" He took a deep breath, shaking his head. "How do I tell him that after everything he's done, he's going back to prison because of budget cuts?"

Hughes shook his head and stood up, starting to gather his papers. "Don't tell him anything yet," he said firmly. "Sooner or later, someone has to take my calls." He walked down to the other end of the table, leaning his hip against the edge. "Look, Peter, I understand. I really do. You know that I was skeptical when you first wanted to bring Caffrey in. And even you have to admit there have been a few bumps."

Peter sighed and nodded. "Yeah, a few." _A few bumps, a few mountains to climb… And ever since the major bump with Fowler and the gun, Neal's work had been even more outstanding, and his forays outside the lines kept to a minimum._

"Well, despite that," Hughes continued, "I know what an asset he's been. But we have four months to try and get this decision changed, or find another funding source. Or… I don't know what. The point is, we have some time to explore options."

"And in the meantime I just keep asking him to risk himself for us?"

"Do you really think he'd do better knowing? You think he wants to go back to prison now instead of giving us a chance to work something out?"

"Reese, he's a known FBI informer. There are a lot of people in prison now at least partially thanks to his work. If he goes back…"

"Four months, Peter," Hughes repeated, leaning over to lay a hand on the younger agent's shoulder. "I'm not saying don't tell him for four months, Peter. I'm saying let's just take a little time and see what we can find out. You know how decisions sometimes get made. Left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing and all."

"Yeah." Peter sighed, working his jaw back and forth. He looked down onto the main floor just in time to see the door open as Jones, Diana, and Neal walked in. They were laughing about something. "Looks like a successful day," he said softly.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Hughes agreed just as softly. "This isn't over, Peter, not by a long shot. Caffrey's one of us – and believe me, not long ago those are words I never thought I'd hear myself say. We're not done fighting."

Peter nodded and stood up. "Thanks, Reese." He picked up the budget files. "I'll go through these, see what ideas I can find."

"Let me know."

Peter opened the door and walked out, stopping briefly in his office to drop the files off before heading down to the bullpen. He found he was actually shaking and he stopped, taking a deep breath. _This might take a con worthy of Neal's talents to not just fall apart and blurt out the bad news._

The others were still laughing as he approached. "Does this mean you caught Polson?"

Jones nodded. "Got him, in possession of the stolen art. Got _The Arranger_ too," he added, laughing.

"Not exactly fence of the century?" Peter guessed.

"Janitor at an art academy," Diana supplied. "Figured that made him an authority."

"Well, maybe not desperados from the Top 10 list, but good job anyway," Peter said. He nodded his head in Neal's direction, not able to look the other man in the eye yet. "This guy behave?"

Jones and Diana shared a conspiratorial look. "Only had to put him in cuffs three times," Jones deadpanned.

"Sat on him once," Diana added.

"Locked him in the supply cabinet…"

Neal held his hands up to the sky in exasperation. "Hey, guys? I'm right here, you know." He shook his head and sighed theatrically. "And this after I sprang for lunch."

"Lunch was very good," Diana admitted.

"Way better than deviled ham," Jones added with a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead, make fun," Peter said, wishing he could truly feel the joviality he was trying to portray. "But deviled ham helped make me what I am today."

He could only scowl as that statement made the other three break out into laughter.

"Fine, fine." He finally chanced a look at Neal. "I hope you enjoy walking home tonight."

"Actually, we were talking about going out for a drink," Jones said.

Diana nodded. "You should come along, Peter. I'm sure you could use one about now."

"I found this great new place," Neal said. "A wine list to die for… and they have beer too."

"No, not tonight." _He couldn't spend time with Neal right now, not without thinking about the meeting, and what might happen._ "I've got some work to finish up. You guys go ahead, have a good time." He started for his office, then stopped and turned back. "Really good work."

He was almost to the stairs when he knew someone was behind him.

"Peter, is something wrong?"

_Leave it to the ultimate con man to see through his ruse_.

Peter turned around, offering a tired smile. "I got to spend all day in a budget meeting. What could be wrong?"

The look on Neal's face clearly said he wasn't convinced. "Peter, if there's something I can do…"

"There is." Peter took the younger man by the shoulders and turned him around, giving a gentle nudge toward the door where Diana and Jones were waiting. "Go. Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

It was late when he got home. He'd planned it that way, not wanting to face any questions.

Not wanting to have to face El and lie.

The house was quiet and dark as he let himself in. Of course, that only seemed to magnify the sound associated with every move he made as he kicked his shoes off and started up the stairs.

_He really needed to fix that third step, the one that creaked every time someone put weight on it. And why hadn't he remembered that it did that, before he stepped on it now…_

Trying to minimize the disturbance, Peter walked past the master bedroom and down to the guest room. He slipped out of his clothes, stripping down to his boxers and leaving everything else spread out on the bed. He could put the clothing away in the morning, when he wouldn't be disturbing anyone.

It made him just a little nervous to leave his gun there. But the gun safe in the bedroom tended to make a loud clicking sound when it was opened – not good for stealth. _Something he had always wondered about. If someone __was__ breaking into his home, and he wanted to get his gun out quietly, the safe made it nearly impossible. Wasn't that giving the bad guys an unfair advantage?_

He wandered into the guest bathroom and picked up his toothbrush. This wasn't exactly the first time he'd come home way too late, so he always kept an extra one in there. He brushed, and flossed, and then looked into the mirror, staring at his reflection.

"Don't tell Neal anything yet," he whispered to himself. "And how do I pull that off?"

Unfortunately, his mirror image didn't have an answer to that question either.

Peter flipped off the light and padded barefoot down to the bedroom. At least they had invested in one of those high quality foam mattresses, the ones with the commercials where someone jumped on one side and the glass of wine didn't spill on the other. El had never wanted to test that out, but he did have to admit that it was comfortable – and it did offer the advantage of very little movement when one of them tossed and turned, or snuck into bed late.

He was just congratulating himself on his stealthy work when El's voice told him he hadn't succeeded after all.

"Honey? It's really late."

"I know," he whispered, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"What time is it?" she asked, yawning.

"A little after midnight."

"Midnight?" She turned to face him, the concern on her face evident even in the dim glow of the moonlight that snuck in the front window. "Is something wrong?"

"Just a late night," he whispered, counting on the semi darkness to hide the lie in his eyes. "Nothing to worry about."

"You're all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." _Sick to his stomach over what he learned today, but other than that…_

"Is Neal all right?"

_Well, Neal had been the cause of a number of other late nights, hadn't he. _"Neal's fine." _At least for a while._ "El, I was just stuck in that budget meeting all day, and things piled up. I'm sorry I'm so late."

"You're sure nothing's wrong?"

"I'm sure." _Other than the fact that I might lose my friend, the best partner I've ever had, to budget cuts. And there was just a bad feeling about this, like something more was involved._

"All right."

He curled up next to her, pulling her in tightly as he wrapped his arms around her. "I love you, you know."

"Mmmmm, I know."

They snuggled in together, finally reaching the position that was a favorite for both of them. El had her back to him, spooned in tightly against his body. He had her head on one arm, the other arm wrapped gently over her hip.

Within a few minutes, he could tell that her breathing changed, and that she was asleep.

But he lay awake long after she slept, thinking. Many times before, answers had come to him in the stillness of the night.

This was not one of those times.


	4. The Game is On

"Good morning, Neal."

"June. You're looking lovely, as usual."

She laughed and accepted his gestured invitation to enter. "That's why I keep you around. You're good for my ego."

"As I keep telling Peter, I can do honest," Neal replied, grinning. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Well, I thought perhaps we could share a cup of coffee this morning."

"I'd like nothing better."

He escorted her out to the patio, where he had moved the coffee service and pastries. With a bow and a flourish he pulled out her chair.

"Thank you, kind sir."

"My pleasure." He sat down across from her and poured coffee into two cups. He pushed one across the table and then leaned back in his chair, his own cup held close to his face in both hands. "Ahhh, no better way to start the morning," he sighed, breathing the aroma in.

"Byron always agreed." June settled back in her own chair, looking at the skyline. "Mornings were always our favorite time, just relaxing, a good cup of coffee in hand."

"The best coffee."

"I've found a few I like, but this has been a good one," June confirmed. "I remember the first time I tasted it."

"Must have been in Italy."

"Oh, yes. We were touring Tuscany, and we stopped in this small village. The only accommodations in town were a couple of private homes where the owners rented out rooms. They'd be called bed and breakfasts now, but back then they were just rooms to let."

"So you just happened to stumble on this coffee?"

"Sometimes luck is the best friend you can have. I'm sure you can understand that."

Neal raised his cup in a toast. "Touché."

"Anyway," she continued. "That first morning, when we went downstairs to breakfast, that aroma almost had me convinced I had died and gone to heaven."

"Instead, you had stumbled onto liquid gold."

"The owner had a vineyard, but on the side he roasted and blended his own coffee beans too. Oh, the wines were excellent as well. I should have a few bottles sent over with the next coffee shipment. I think you'd appreciate the cabernet."

"You know me too well, June."

"Does that scare you?"

He looked at her, an amused grin on his face. "A little." He looked around at the patio, the skyline beyond. "Do you know, being here, this is the longest I've ever lived in one place since I was six years old. Well, not counting prison, of course. And I'm ignoring that little lapse in time when OPR had me sent back to prison after Kate was killed."

"I try to ignore that as well," June assured him. "I missed you."

He just smiled as they each sipped their coffee.

"I'm surprised Peter isn't here already," he said after a moment, looking at his watch. "He'll miss out on his coffee if he doesn't hurry."

"Oh, well, he called. He said he was running late and would see you at the office."

Puzzled, Neal pulled out his cell phone. _It was charged, and on, with service…_ "I wonder why he called you and not me," he mused.

"Maybe you were in the shower?" June suggested.

The phone didn't show any missed calls, but he certainly wasn't going to argue with June about it. "Maybe." He set his cup down and started scrolling through the contact list. "I guess I'll call a cab."

"Oh, no need. Samantha has a doctor's visit scheduled. We can swing by and drop you off on the way."

"Are you sure?"

"It's no bother at all. And you know how she loves having you around."

"Taking the Bentley?"

"Of course."

"Can I drive?"

June laughed and stood up. "All right, you can drive," she conceded. "I just need to do a couple of things, and make sure Samantha is ready. You can meet us downstairs in about ten minutes."

"I'll be ready." He stood as well, walking June back to the door.

As soon as she was gone, and he could close the door without being impolite, he pulled his phone out again, rechecking the call history. _Still no sign that Peter had called. It just didn't make sense that Peter would call June, and not let him know directly…_

Neal had had a definite feeling that something was wrong the evening before, and now this puzzle.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he muttered to himself as he considered calling Peter himself.

_No, no reason to alert the man over the phone. Better to ask in person, when he could see Peter's eyes._

_Always better to see the other person's eyes when you asked a hard question._

* * *

He pulled the Bentley neatly into the No Parking zone in front of the Federal Building, then leaned back in the soft leather seat, hands still on the wheel. "I love this car."

June laughed and reached over to pat his hand. "Well, you know you can borrow it whenever you want."

Neal had a wistful look on his face as he sighed. "A two mile circle doesn't do it justice."

"I know," June said with a wink. "But it'll keep you in practice."

Neal laughed and opened the door, sliding out. He leaned into the back, giving Samantha a quick kiss. "Good luck, kid."

She responded with a theatrical sigh. "I'm not a kid!"

"Yeah, I know. Call me later and tell me how it goes, all right?"

"Okay, Neal."

He stood up and held the door as June slid into the driver's seat. She adjusted the mirrors, fastened her seatbelt, and then looked up at him. "You know, Martha is making her special veal marsala tonight if you'd like to join me for dinner."

"You really do know me too well! But, it's up to the boss. I'll try."

"Well, have a good day catching the bad ones."

"Will do."

He closed the door and tapped the roof a couple of times, then stepped back as June pulled back into traffic. He watched until she was past the next intersection and then turned toward the building.

Jones was standing on the sidewalk grinning at him.

"Nice ride," the agent said by way of greeting.

"Very nice," Neal agreed. "Maybe I'll have one of my own someday, when I grow up."

"You're going to grow up?"

"Hey, I said someday!"

Jones laughed and let Neal go in front of him. "Yeah, hope I live to see it."

"Funny. Really. You're very funny."

"I try. And hey, I sing too!"

"You scare me sometimes, Jones."

They were both still laughing as they got onto the elevator, earning some questioning stares from the other people in the car. Somehow, that just made things funnier, and the laughter continued up to the 21st floor.

Jones paused in the entryway, clearing his throat. "Serious now, right?"

"Right, serious," Neal agreed. He rolled his hat theatrically up his arm and onto his head, setting it at a jaunty angle, and strolled into the office suite.

Jones just rolled his eyes, shook his head, and followed.

Neal stopped at his desk, dropped his hat, and looked at the upper level. The door was closed to Peter's office but the light was on, and he could see the agent in there, talking on the phone.

"Something wrong?" Jones asked as he went past.

"No, not wrong," Neal said slowly. "Just strange. Peter called June and said he was running late. I didn't think he'd be here."

"Well, you know the boss. Running late to him means he thought of something and can't wait to get in and see the file."

"Yeah, you're right," Neal agreed, still studying the office. From the way Peter was gesturing, this was not a pleasant conversation.

_Combined with the agent's mood the evening before, there had to be something going on._

Just then Diana stopped by, motioning Jones back over to join them at Neal's desk. She handed each of them a folder. "Let's hit the conference room," she said. "The Assistant US Attorney wants these reports on Polson and _The Arranger_ this morning."

"That's kind of pushing it for a couple of two bit crooks, isn't it?" Jones asked. "They've got enough in the preliminaries for an arraignment."

"Apparently Laird – Walter Laird, the fence's real name – is claiming he has information on some other crimes and is looking to make a deal. The AUSA wants all the information she can get before deciding what to do."

"Any clue what the other crimes might be?" Neal asked. He hung his suit jacket over his chair, picked up a pen and his rubber band ball, and followed the other two toward the stairs.

"Not yet," Diana said over her shoulder. "But she's coming here to pick up the reports in person, and give us a briefing."

They started up the stairs, Diana leading the way. As he passed Peter's office, Neal paused, looking in. He raised his hand to wave a greeting – but when the agent saw him, he turned away, stepping into the farthest corner, phone still pressed to his ear.

Definitely curious, Neal decided. _Except for the tiny little matter of having a gun in his pocket the day before – not his idea, and only for a brief time – he'd been toeing the line Peter drew. So it couldn't be about him, right?_

Neal stepped into the conference room and closed the door, then took a seat at the table. He matched the two agents and opened the file, prepared to add what he could to the report process.

_But Peter's behavior definitely was curious, and would need to be investigated._

* * *

Peter bit his tongue – literally – to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind. It wasn't language appropriate to a professional conversation, which he was trying to maintain. He was also very aware that Neal was in the conference room, and that the glass wasn't the most efficient sound barrier ever created.

"Look," he said, putting all the quiet force he could behind his words. "I need to know where that information came from." He listened for a moment, grinding his jaw in frustration. "How can this possibly be a 'need to know' situation? And even if it is, I _need_ to know. This is my partner we're talking about!"

He paused, holding the phone away from his ear as the other participant yelled a response. _So much for keeping the language professional._ "All right, look," he barked into the phone, his temper lost. "I want to talk to your superior. Oh? When will he be free? No, next week is _not_ all right. You tell him to call me back _today_ or there will be consequences. What? No, that's not a threat, it's a promise."

Slamming the phone down felt good – there was something about that solid THUD that was much better than you could get by just disconnecting a cell phone call.

Of course, the THUD also carried, as evidenced by the three sets of eyes staring at him from the conference room next door.

_No, he wasn't ready to explain anything yet._

Ignoring the looks from Jones, Diana, and Neal, he opened the office door and stalked down toward Hughes' domain.

The door was partially open and he rapped his knuckles quickly on the glass even as he was pushing the door open. "Reese…"

Hughes held up a hand, speaking into the phone. "Carl, I'm being stonewalled, and I don't appreciate it one little bit. The more calls I have to make, the angrier I'm going to get, and that's not good for anyone. What? Yeah, you do that."

Peter winced as Hughes executed a phone slam of his own.

"You can't get anywhere either?" Peter asked, closing the door.

The older man shook his head. "Even people who have owed me favors for decades aren't taking my calls."

Peter dropped into a chair in front of the desk. "Everyone I've talked to agrees it doesn't make sense, but there's nothing they can do."

"Well, that's bullshit," Hughes said, taking his own chair. He leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Pardon my French."

Peter gave him a tired grin. "I may be speaking quite fluent French myself before long."

"I've been through a lot of budget wars, Peter. This just doesn't feel like anything I've seen before."

Peter nodded slowly. "Remember what Fowler said, about there being someone really powerful behind the whole amber music box thing? Someone powerful enough to guarantee a position in OPR, and pull lots of other strings."

"You're thinking this is connected?" Hughes took a deep breath and shook his head. "I don't know if I'm ready to make that leap, Peter."

"It just seems too convenient, the way no one will talk."

"Well, I can't discount the possibility entirely," Hughes conceded. "But I'm not ready to put an all out investigation together in that direction either. What else do you have?"

"Neal's current deal is totally tied to the payments coming from the fund that's being eliminated. I've got an appointment with someone from Legal to see if there are any loopholes."

"Now I'm torn," Hughes admitted. "For all the rigmarole we go through with Legal, there better not be any loopholes in that agreement. On the other hand, I hope there is."

"I know. If we can separate the release from the money, that would solve the budget question."

"You think Caffrey would do this if he wasn't getting paid? At least for a while."

"I can guarantee you that Neal is not doing this work for the measly stipend he's getting paid." Peter paused, shaking his head. "He's done everything we've asked of him. I mean, sure, there have been some bumps…"

"Some _big_ bumps," Hughes interjected.

Peter nodded, conceding the point. "He's also put his life on the line, more than once. Reese, you know how many cases he's helped crack…"

Hughes held up a hand. "Peter, I'm not the one you need to convince," he said softly.

"Sorry," Peter replied, sighing. "I know that. I know you're trying."

There was a small smile playing on the older man's lips. "You know, when you first brought him in here, I thought it was the worst idea I'd heard in years."

"I know."

"I figured you'd be lucky if he didn't run in the first week, much less if you actually got a case solved with him."

"I remember."

"And now?" Hughes straightened up behind the desk. "Now, I don't want to lose a valued member of my team."

"I am going to have to tell him sooner or later."

"It's only Day 2," Hughes cautioned. "We still have leads to follow. When's your appointment with Legal?"

Peter looked at his watch and stood up. "I should probably head down now."

"Well, let me know how it goes. This is one time I'd be glad to find out there's a loophole."

"Me too. Believe me, me too."

* * *

Neal looked up from the report, watching as Peter stopped near the conference room, looking in. But then the agent turned away, down the stairs, heading for the elevators.

Granted, Peter hadn't been on the surveillance yesterday, and had played no part in the arrests. Still, this was _his_ team, and it didn't make sense that he was so studiously avoiding them.

_And what was up with that strange phone call earlier?_

There was a lull in the discussion, and he took the opportunity to ask Diana a question. "Did Peter say anything when he gave you these files this morning?"

She shook her head. "I didn't actually talk to him. He was already in his office, and on the phone, when I came in. I just found the files and a note on my desk."

"I thought you said he was running late," Jones said.

Neal shrugged. "That's what June told me."

"It definitely didn't look like that call was going well," Diana offered.

"That's an understatement," Jones agreed.

"He was acting a little strange last night too. Remember?" Neal asked.

Jones nodded. "Figured it was just the budget meeting, like he said."

"Must be one hell of a cut if it's still bothering him so much," Diana said.

"Yeah." Neal looked back at the now empty elevator lobby. _Too bad Peter didn't have a tracking anklet…_ "Anyone want to help toss his office and look for clues?"

The silence and patronizing looks gave him his answer to that.

"Just an idea," he muttered, returning his attention to the file in front of him.

* * *

Peter stopped outside the glass doors emblazoned with the words _Legal Department_ emblazoned on them. He'd never spent much time here; never wanted to spend much time here, to be honest. Usually when an agent wound up going to Legal it was because he had screwed something up. Or maybe because he needed to plead his case for a warrant when the evidence wasn't _quite_ there to get it approved on the first review.

There was something of an 'us against them' mentality between street agents and the lawyers. The agents argued that the lawyers wouldn't let them do their jobs, while the lawyers argued that the agents were cowboys who made their jobs harder.

That's why most agents he knew didn't come here just to shoot the breeze.

He pushed open the door, took a deep breath, and entered the lion's den.

There was a reception desk just inside the doors, and that was his first step. "Agent Peter Burke," he said. "I have an appointment with Julie Cole."

The man checked a list on his monitor and nodded. "Down to the windows," he said, pointing. "Then turn right. Her office is about halfway along."

"Thanks."

Peter followed the indicated path, passing offices and cubicles along the way. He turned right, winding up in a corridor with offices on each side. After he passed a few, he started watching the name plates and soon found what he was looking for.

The offices here at least had solid dividing walls and doors, with a shorter glass section that allowed a view into the room. The woman inside was concentrating on her computer screen, apparently deep in thought. She was fairly young; he'd guess early thirties. Long blonde hair tied back in a loose, but neat, bun. From the way she was sitting, he guessed she was average in height, maybe closer to tall than short.

That didn't matter, of course; all that mattered was if she was good enough to find a way out of this mess.

He reached in and knocked on the door. "Ms. Cole?"

She stood up, smiling. "You must be agent Burke."

"I must be."

"Have a seat." She gestured to a chair by the desk, then walked over and closed the door.

"Did you have a chance to look at the document I sent you?"

She nodded, taking the chair behind the desk. "I was just reviewing it. It's quite detailed."

"Well, we didn't want to leave the subject any loopholes."

"But now you're looking for one."

Peter sighed, leaning forward. "The man in question, Neal Caffrey? He's my partner."

"But you're the agent who arrested him originally?"

"Yes. And I caught him again after he escaped from prison. It's all a fascinating story, but the bottom line is that he offered his services to help solve cases. I got him released, and since then he has helped close dozens of cases, sometimes at risk of his life. He's saved my life, as well as the lives of other agents and hostages. But now I may lose him because of budget cuts." He took a breath, trying to force himself to calm down. _Cole wasn't the enemy… yet._

"Can I assume that the fund that makes the payments stipulated in the release has been cut?"

"Yes. And no one up the chain of command is returning calls or providing any information."

"Bottom line, then, is that you'd like to separate the release portion of the document from the funding?"

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes." _At least she understood – now if she could just figure out a way to do it._

"Obviously, I need a little more time to review everything," Cole said. "On first glance, it's a pretty tight document."

"But you'll look?"

"Of course. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that we can get the release separated. What then? I mean, that would leave your consultant without housing or a stipend."

"One bridge at a time."

"And the consequences if this doesn't happen?"

Peter leaned back in the chair, taking a deep breath. _Just the question had him shaking_. "I lose my partner. The FBI loses a valuable resource. And Neal Caffrey winds up back in prison, where he'd be a known informer. I'm sure some of the men he's helped convict would just _love_ to see him there."

Cole leaned back, considering. "What about negotiating a modified release agreement? One that isn't so closely tied to the budget."

Peter's jaw clenched involuntarily, and he had to force it open again. "The people who would need to approve that aren't answering their phones either."

"Look, don't take this the wrong way, but… has Caffrey done anything to warrant the brass wanting to close this off?"

"I won't lie, there have been a few bumps. He's pushed the envelope a number of times. But everything was handled within the office here, and my boss is firmly behind keeping Neal on the team." _Then of course there's the mystery man who can make appointments to OPR happen with a snap of his fingers… But Hughes was right, it wasn't time to jump to that conclusion yet._

Cole pulled up a file on the computer and skimmed through it. "I'm just trying to offer all of the possibilities I can," she said. "The budget item that got cut covered payments to confidential informants and consultants, right?" Peter nodded, so she continued. "There might be other positions that Mr. Caffrey could be placed in."

"As a convicted felon?"

"It's not common, but it's not unheard of either. It looks like he has several degrees…"

"Forged."

"Excuse me?"

"He forged the college degrees. I knew about those, but it turns out he even forged his high school diploma." Peter shook his head, offering a wry smile. "He's one of the smartest men I've ever known. Hell, he even spent some time teaching at a couple of universities as part of scams. But he doesn't have a real degree to his name."

"Well, we can work with that. I'd recommend starting with a GED program, and I can help get that set up if you'd like."

Peter hesitated before answering. "We haven't told him about the budget issue yet," he admitted. "My boss and I were trying to get more answers first."

"That's understandable. But I think we can work around that. Has he indicated an interest in taking on new responsibilities?"

"Yes. He likes new challenges."

"Then as his partner, it would make sense for you to recommend that he better his chances at progressing to those new challenges." She pulled up something else on the computer. "Is he in the office today?"

"Yes, working on some follow-up to a surveillance job from yesterday."

"I'm free at 1:30," she said, writing the time on a business card and handing it over. "Have him come down and see me. I promise not to mention anything about budget cuts."

"Do you think this will really improve his chances?"

"I don't know yet," Cole admitted. "There seems to be a lot more going on than meets the eye. But I don't think it can hurt to work on the education angle. Anything that makes him look more valuable to the Bureau should help."

Peter picked up the card and put it in his pocket. "He'll be here."

* * *

Peter recognized AUSA Wendy Leone in the conference room as he reentered the White Collar area. And that left him feeling torn. As much as he did not want to be face to face with Neal right now – the man could read people like no one else he had ever known – this was _his_ team in there, and he wanted to know what was going on.

And he wanted to know _now,_ not from a truncated report later.

In the end, curiosity won out and he walked into the conference room. "Hello, Wendy."

"Peter! And here I thought you were avoiding me."

"Nope. But us crime fighters never get a break. Fortunately, my team functions quite well without me."

Leone nodded and pushed a folder in his direction as he sat down at the table. "Well, what originally seemed like a small time bust may actually be something much bigger. Laird claims to be able to hand over a bigger fish who may be involved in the thefts from that new gallery last week. I've got the name here somewhere," she finished, paging through some papers.

"The Shelton," Neal supplied, and then leaned back under Peter's withering glare. "The owner might be an acquaintance," he started. "But I have an air tight alibi at the time of the theft. I was in a car with you all night."

"Yeah, we were watching for Franks that night," Jones confirmed.

"So do you have a suspect in the Shelton case?" Peter asked.

"A couple," Leone replied. "Laird has only communicated with the thief via e-mail, so he can't identify anyone."

"Wendy is having the exchanges sent over," Diana said. "We were talking about having Neal make the meet instead of Laird."

"There's the messenger now," Leone said, pointing down at the entry. "I'll be right back."

"We're sure the thief won't recognize Laird?" Peter asked, somewhat skeptical.

"It's what Laird says," Jones replied. "And he seems pretty desperate for a deal."

"Not to mention too stupid to make this up," Diana added.

"Diana was not impressed with _The Arranger,_" Neal said, his eyes locked on Peter.

Peter squirmed under the scrutiny, though he tried not to let it show. And he found that he could not meet Neal's gaze. "Well, just make sure to set up plenty of back-up."

Diana nodded. "We're on it, boss."

"You want in?" Jones asked.

"Tomorrow? Yeah, count me in. I have a few things to do now, but I'll be back with you in the morning." He reached into his pocket and pulled out Julie Cole's business card, laying it on the table in front of Neal. "You have an appointment with Legal at 1:30. It shouldn't take too long, but do not blow it off."

"Legal?" Neal looked at the card and then up at Peter. "Did I do something? Allegedly, of course."

"Neal, believe it or not, it's not always about you doing something, alleged or not." _It was true, at least in this case, but the words still felt strange coming out of his mouth._ "Cole will explain." Peter looked out onto the walkway and saw Hughes heading that way. "Look, I have to go. Let me know if you need help with any obstacles for tomorrow."

* * *

He walked slowly, stopping to smile and nod at those he passed. Arriving early could be interpreted as nervousness. _And yeah, he was nervous – but never, ever let a mark see that._ Getting there late was bad too – keeping people waiting sent a specific message. Sometimes, if you wanted to let the other person know that _you_ were in charge, it was a good thing to be late.

But when the other person was an attorney in the FBI's legal department – someone who might or might not be looking for a reason to send him back to prison – being right on time was the best option. _And Peter would have said something if it was really that serious… right?_

It was 1:29 when he walked casually past the office, noticing the blond woman working inside. She had her head down, studying something, and didn't seem to notice. He kept going to an empty office a couple of doors down, and waited.

_She had her jacket off, hung on a coat rack in the corner. Casual. So he had guessed right, leaving his suit coat upstairs, and his tie slightly loose. Just a chat right? _

At exactly 1:30 he knocked on the door and stopped at the threshold. "Ms. Cole?"

She stood up, smiling, hand extended. "Mr. Caffrey?"

He took her hand, his grip firm and confident. "Neal."

"Julie." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Please, have a seat."

_Okay, first names – maybe this really wasn't anything bad…_

"Now, did Agent Burke explain anything to you?"

Neal shook his head. "He just said be here at 1:30 and you'd explain."

"Well, he told me you were always looking for new challenges here."

"Is there an opening in the legal department?"

_A smile, that was good._

"Not at the moment. But pretty much anything would require a degree – a _real_ degree."

"Ahhhh."

She slid a piece of paper across the desk. "This is an extremely impressive educational résumé – but I understand it may not be quite legitimate."

"Should I have a lawyer of my own here before I answer that?"

"To the best of my knowledge, no one has filed a complaint. And the FBI honestly has better things to do than pursue fancified résumés. Unless, of course, it was used to commit a crime…"

"Nothing that the statute of limitations hasn't run out on. Hypothetically, of course."

"Of course," Julie laughed. She reached for some sheets sitting on her printer. "Well, I don't have any specifics on opportunities right now, but I think this is where we should start anyway."

He looked at the top page. "A GED program."

"You really didn't finish high school?"

He gave a little half shrug. "It didn't seem important at the time."

"Then the GED is the first step before anything else." She reached over and pulled out the second page. "The thing I like about this program is that they'll let you test out of most of it – assuming that you pass those tests, of course. But given what I've seen in your file, you can probably skip most of the classroom work."

"What if some of the entries in my file are things I only allegedly did?"

"Did you _allegedly_ learn anything from them?"

He grinned. "I've had a fair bit of life experience." _For a lawyer, she wasn't half bad._

"Look, I can't tell you for sure where this all might lead. But it can't hurt to have a real diploma, can it?"

"I don't know. It kind of feels like I have to grow up."

It was Julie's turn to laugh. "Hey, I was going to be a professional beach volleyball player. Fun and sun for a living. But that adult thing catches up with most of us, sooner or later."

"So what happened?"

"Blown knee."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, ouch. I did most of my first year of law school on crutches."

He tapped the GED pages. "So how does this work?"

"There's a session starting next Wednesday, and you're enrolled. You'll find the time and location in there. The first class is an overview – basically, what's required to get the diploma. They'll tell you what's covered in each topic, and then you can decide which tests to take."

"Can I test out of all of it?"

"You're welcome to take all of the tests. Then you just have to pass."

"Then what?"

"Then we can talk about college. There are a couple of schools we've worked with before that allow advanced placement based on testing, or accelerated classes. By that time I might have more information on what might position you best within the Bureau."

Neal picked up the papers and stacked them neatly. "Wow, back to school."

"Not what you expected today?"

"I didn't know what to expect. Peter just told me to be here. Given my background…"

"It seems your background is proving quite valuable in White Collar."

"I'm trying."

"Well, let me know how it goes with the GED class, and then we'll talk again."

Neal stood up, extending his hand. "Thanks."

They shook hands, and he let himself out of the office, retracing his steps to the elevator lobby.

_A GED degree? Why wouldn't Peter have just said something? And what about all of the phone calls both he and Hughes seemed to be having today?_

_Admittedly, having a legitimate high school diploma was an intriguing idea, even if it wasn't something he'd ever given much thought to before. But there was something else going on…_

_And Neal was forming a plan on how to find out what that was._


	5. Discovery

"Anything else you want to look at?" Jones asked.

Neal studied the park and the surrounding streets one more time, memorizing the details. It was an open area that didn't offer much by way of concealment opportunities. That was good – his mysterious contact would be harder pressed to bring additional people in unnoticed.

Of course, it also meant that his own Bureau backup would be harder to conceal.

"I think I'm good on my part," Neal replied. "How close can you get backup in?"

Diana was pointing to a corner on the far side of the park. "There's a side street over there that will be the best place for the van. Drew is contacting NYPD now to get it marked as a no parking zone for tomorrow."

"So the closer you can move the meet to that corner, the better," Jones added.

Neal nodded. "And in the park?"

"We'll have people here, as close as we can get," Diana confirmed.

"Hot dog vendor?" Neal guessed.

Jones reached over and slapped his shoulder. "Hey, I make a mean hot dog!"

Neal just grinned. "Maybe I'll have one when this is done."

"Mustard?"

"Is there any other way?"

Jones laughed. "Seriously, anything got you worried about the set up?"

Neal shook his head. "Nope, I'm good."

"I'm dropping Jones at the park and ride. I can take you home," Diana offered.

"Actually, I left something at the office. I'll see if I can catch a ride back with Drew and see you tomorrow."

"All right, see you then."

Neal watched as Diana and Jones walked off toward her car, and then he turned to find Drew. He got along all right with the young probationary agent, but they weren't close like Jones and Diana. The kid would give him a ride, and then leave him alone.

_And it wasn't really a lie - he always left __something__ in the office. Not necessarily anything he needed tonight, but he hadn't actually specified that. _

_Ergo, it counted as not being a lie._

_Given what time it was, and with rush hour traffic, the office should be fairly empty by the time they got back. Hopefully, Peter would have left for the day._

_He was going to feel bad for what he was planning, but sometimes Peter just needed to be saved from himself._

* * *

"Ted, I really need you to call me back as soon as possible. Thanks."

Peter hung up the phone and buried his head against the palms of his hands. The day had been a perfect picture of frustration as far as getting any answers about the whole budget issue.

Well, the conversation with Cole had offered a few 'maybe' answers, but nothing he felt comfortable relying on. Beyond that, he was exhausted from making calls that went unanswered, and trying to work his way through the maze of how and why this decision had been made.

From a couple of encounters with Hughes, experiencing the older man's bad temper, he knew the senior agent was feeling the frustration too.

_And the more roadblocks he encountered, the more he was convinced that this was related to the music box, Larrsen, and the mystery man pulling the strings._

He looked up when he heard the knock on his door. "Reese?" From the look on the other man's face, it didn't appear the older agent had had any better luck since they had last spoken.

Hughes stepped into the office. "I assume you haven't had any better luck than I have."

Peter shook his head. "A lot of people out of the office today," he said, his tone clearly indicating his disbelief.

"Yeah, the DC office must have been nearly empty today."

"Hope the bad guys didn't know and plan a crime spree."

That got a tired smile from Hughes. "Might serve them right," he muttered. "Not that I'd ever say anything like that!"

"Of course not."

"Go home, Peter. Have dinner with your wife. We'll start again tomorrow."

"And in the meantime I send Neal out undercover again."

"Do you really think it would do any good to tell him at this point?"

Peter sighed and shook his head. "No, it wouldn't. And I'm glad the team is keeping him busy."

"So… go home."

"I just want to check my e-mail again, and then I will."

"Good night, Peter."

"Good night."

Peter watched the older man leave and then turned to his computer. He refreshed the mail program twice, hoping to find new mail.

All he got was an ad promising the lowest prices on V1AgrA!.

_How the hell did the spammers get inside the secure e-mail on the FBI servers?_

He deleted the e-mail – fortunately, he didn't yet need little blue pills – logged off, and shut the computer down.

_Dinner with El would be good. He didn't want to share the news with her yet – no sense both of them worrying. But she always had a way of making him feel better._

* * *

Neal allowed himself a small smile as Drew pulled the Bureau sedan into the parking ramp. Peter's car was gone.

_Hopefully that meant he'd gone home for the night._

They rode up together in the elevator, in silence. Neal had the distinct impression that the young agent was a little intimidated by him.

_Someone probably told him the big, bad ex-con might bite. Or pick his pocket._

Under other circumstances, Neal probably would have done something to try and ease the kid's uneasiness. But for right now, it played into his plans. Hopefully, Drew wouldn't tarry in the office.

_Maybe he should find out…_

"Got plans tonight?"

Drew actually flinched, surprised by the conversation. "Uh… just gonna drop off these notes for tomorrow. Then I'm meeting my fiancé for dinner."

"Fiancé. Congratulations."

"Yeah, thanks."

The elevator doors opened and Neal hurried ahead, opening the door. He followed Drew into the office area.

Peter's office was dark, the door closed. Hughes' office was dark as well. And a quick glance around the bullpen showed only a couple of people still working, off in one corner. Drew quickly headed that way, greeting the other young agents as he reached his desk.

Neal stopped at his own desk, making a show of looking for something in a drawer.

It was only a matter of a couple of minutes before Drew was heading out again, accompanied by one of the other agents. _Leaving only one other person in the office…_

He considered waiting, in the hope that the other agent would wrap things up and leave. If questioned, he could always say he was working on his cover for the meet the next day.

_Yeah, as if he wasn't going to make 90% of it up on the spot anyway, depending on how things went._

The problem was, some of these young agents were so desperate to make points with the higher ups that they were known to stay all night.

_Well, he wasn't known as a con man extraordinaire for nothing. One young agent, no matter how gung-ho, was not going to stop him._

Neal pulled out a couple of file folders, perfect cover to carry when walking through the office. He also grabbed a penlight from one of the drawers and then extracted his lock pick kit from his inner jacket pocket. Since he might _hypothetically_ have opened Peter's office door before, he quickly pulled out the tool he needed and re-pocketed the rest of the kit.

Fully armed for the job, Neal stood up and walked confidently toward the stairs. _Never let them know that you're not absolutely entitled to do what you're doing._

He reached the office door, and a quick glance showed no interest from the agent down below. His _hypothetical_ experience with the lock meant that he had it open in barely more time than it would have taken with a key.

Neal slipped into the office, opening the door only as wide as he needed to. Then he eased the door shut again, waiting.

_Still no interest whatsoever from the young agent. He must not have been paying attention to all of the warnings about always being aware of what was going on around you._

Allowing himself a small victory smile that he apparently knew the Bureau teachings better than the agent – or at least applied them better, when it suited him – Neal moved over to the desk and dropped to his knees, letting the furniture provide cover. Laying the folders on the top, he turned the penlight on, clamped it firmly between his teeth, and deftly opened the locked drawers.

_Really, the Bureau should provide its senior agents with safes. That would at least make it more challenging._

The penlight's LED bulbs provided good illumination as he started on the top drawer. He knew this was where Peter normally kept miscellaneous things – staples and other office supplies, including an unusually large number of highlighters. An empty sandwich wrapper, which Neal carefully avoided lest it still have traces of deviled ham attached. A stress ball, which Neal knew got quite a bit of use. _Somehow, it often wound up in use when he was in here talking to Peter…_

Oh, and the extra handcuffs, with which Neal had frequently found himself threatened.

All in all, nothing that looked remotely helpful in solving the current mystery, so Neal moved on to the second drawer. There were folders – personnel evaluations, a couple of recent victim interviews, expense reports. But nothing that looked likely to be causing Peter's current level of apparent angst.

He struck gold with the contents of the third drawer.

There was a large folder marked as the material for the previous day's budget meeting. It was a thick folder and, fervently hoping he didn't need to actually read _that_, Neal set it aside, at least for the moment. But the blue folder underneath caught his attention.

_Budget Addendum. Marked Urgent and Confidential._

A late addition to the budget, maybe something unexpected – that had potential. Neal settled down on the floor and opened the folder.

* * *

"Peter?"

"Hi, honey."

El came partway down the stairs, smiling. "Wow, this is downright early for you recently."

"Hughes kicked me out."

"Remind me to thank him." She came the rest of the way down and offered up a kiss.

Peter wrapped his arms around his wife, holding her for a long moment even after their lips parted.

"Peter, is something wrong?"

_He never had to worry about remembering what an intelligent woman he had married – there were constant reminders._ "Just budget stuff," he answered evasively.

"You mean for once you're worried about something that Neal _didn't_ do?"

He looked at her teasing smile and tried to match it. "Somehow, the Bureau does manage to have other things going on." _Even though this did intimately involve Neal. It just wasn't caused by him. Unless it really did turn out to be orchestrated by the puppeteer behind the music box and Kate's death…_

"Well, I just got home myself," El was saying. "So there's nothing started for dinner. I guess we could do sandwiches, or…"

"We could go out to dinner," Peter supplied. _He could use the distraction. Plus there would be other things going on at a restaurant which might keep El from noticing, and asking too many questions about, his mood._

"Little Italy?" El suggested. "That family place we both like so much."

"Sounds good." Peter leaned in for another kiss. "Let me take a quick shower and change, and we'll go."

"It's a date, handsome."

He was smiling for the first time in two days as he went up the stairs.

* * *

_No money allocated for full time consultants in the new year._

That was the bottom line of the document Neal held in his hand. He'd read it three times, just to make sure – but he'd understood it just fine the first time through.

_All contracts tied to a compensation fund to be voided._

Yeah, he'd struck gold with this file. It would definitely explain Peter's bad mood, and his evasiveness.

From the scribbled notes Neal had found with the file, he could make a good guess why Peter hadn't said anything too. It looked like he, and Hughes, had been trying desperately to get answers about where this directive had come from, and what could be done to change it.

Trying, but so far without success.

_They were trying to save him…_

That thought made him feel good – sort of.

_He still would have liked to have known…_

But he could understand why Peter had waited. _And it made him feel good to know that his partner – his friend – was trying as hard as all the notes and call history indicated._

_He still would have liked to have known…_

He read through the file again, looking for anything he might have missed. But it all seemed quite clear.

_And it was almost as though he could see his name on the file, surrounded by a target…_

_Could this be tied to Larrsen, and his still unidentified boss?_

It definitely had a bad feel to it, and over the years Neal had learned to go with those feelings. He'd get Mozzie to look into it. After all, this would directly benefit Neal, not the Suits – and the other man most definitely would look forward to an opportunity to get back at Larrsen.

In the meantime, nothing changed. Neal knew he could do a better job of hiding his feelings on this than Peter would. _The agent telegraphed his feelings way too often to make a truly successful con man; though, truthfully, he had been quite effective in a few undercover situations._

Neal carefully replaced the notes and the file and relocked the drawers. He extinguished the penlight, picked up the files he had brought, and moved toward the door. A quick perusal of the bullpen area showed that the lone agent had given up for the night; all the desk lights were off, the area empty.

He let himself out, locking the door behind him.

A quick stop at his desk, and then he was on the way out, reaching for his cell phone as he waited for the elevator.

"Moz? Yeah, I need your help with something. Can you meet me at June's? All right, I'll pick up some wine and takeout on the way. Right. See you then."

* * *

Dinner out was exactly what he needed, Peter decided.

The food, as always, was excellent. Ever since El's not so subtle poster board sign about liking Italian food – the one that had finally spurred a certain FBI agent into asking her – the cuisine of Italy had played a special part in their lives. They gravitated toward it for special events like birthdays, anniversaries…

And days where it felt like nothing had gone right.

What he really liked about this particular restaurant was that while it was fairly small, its reputation ensured that the establishment stayed busy. That meant other people around, wait staff constantly on the move, other voices blending in the background.

In other words, it was a good place to hide when you wanted to be with someone, but you didn't want to have that person studying you too carefully.

_He could hide a lot of things, but El was always the toughest one to fool. He needed to pay more attention to how Neal…_

Thinking about his friend and partner's name threatened to bring the day's frustrations back to a boil, and Peter fought it back. He made a show of refilling first El's wine glass and then his own, hoping that she didn't notice how his hand was shaking.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he could – should - share the information with her. How many times had she provided sage counsel – especially when it came to a certain con man of their acquaintance?

_But was it fair to burden her with this information when he knew so little about what was going on – and even less about what could happen by January?_

Fortunately, El started in telling him about the trials and tribulations of a new event she was planning, which saved his from needing to make a decision just then. He sipped his wine, and resolved to listen to his wife.

* * *

The knock on the door came just as he finished pouring a glass of wine. Goblet in hand, Neal took a sip as he went to answer the summons.

_The vintage was as good as the recommendation had promised._

He opened the door – to an empty landing. With a sigh, he stepped out toward an alcove by the stairs. "Moz."

"Are you alone?"

"Just me and the cabernet."

He smiled as Mozzie slowly stepped out. "Can't be too careful these days."

"Who, exactly, do you think is going to be skulking around June's house?"

"Ah ha! That's just it, one never knows!" Mozzie announced, walking quickly into the apartment.

Neal took one casual glance around, noting no other skulkers, before following. _Mozzie's finely honed paranoia had climbed to new proportions; of course, he guessed maybe near death experiences could do that._

Mozzie had poured himself a glass of wine and was inspecting the takeout containers. "Good, you got the kung pao. Oh, and the curry. Excellent."

"I know what you like." Neal set his glass on the table and busied himself gathering plates, flatware, and chopsticks while Mozzie moved the food from the counter to the table. Then they busied themselves serving up rice and steaming entrees.

"Oh, this place makes the best dumplings," Mozzie enthused, opening the last box.

Neal nodded, helping himself to one with his chopsticks. "That's why I got a double order."

Mozzie looked over, a finger raised in warning. "Don't think that plying me with food and wine will get me to help the Suit."

"No, this one is about me, Moz," Neal said softly.

Mozzie stopped, loaded chopsticks halfway to his mouth. "That sounds serious."

"Could be."

Mozzie let the food fall back to his plate. "All right, tell me."

"We can eat first."

"Oh, like I could eat now!"

"Moz…"

"All right, give me the digest version now. We can do details later."

"Digest, right." Neal took time for a fortifying sip of wine. "I may be back in orange New Year's day."

Mozzie had opted for a sip of wine as well, and now he turned his head to one side, coughing and spitting. "That would be called dropping the hammer, not a digest."

"Sorry."

Mozzie delicately wiped his mouth with a napkin, set it aside, and then turned to glare at Neal. "I always told you not to trust the Suit."

"It's not Peter," Neal said. _At least, he didn't think so._ "But it's coming down through the Suits."

"Is this another frame job like the pink diamond?"

"Nope. Budget cuts."

Mozzie just stared at him for a moment. "You're serious?"

"Serious."

"Not until January?"

"Not as far as I know."

Mozzie considered that for a long moment and then reached for the dumplings. "All right, that's the digest. And since we're not expecting the federales in the next few minutes, I need food."

Neal leaned back and picked up his wine. "Sounds like a plan, Moz."

* * *

Peter sat down on the edge of the bed, slowly removing one sock. He tossed it aside and then leaned his elbows on his knees sighing. He felt better after a night out with El, and yet…

_Maybe if he had stayed at the office he could have found something, anything, to lead him in the right direction on this budget thing._

"Everything all right?"

El's voice spurred him back to the present and he busied himself with his other sock. "Sure. Fine."

He felt her weight on the bed behind him, and then her hands were on his shoulders, massaging the tight muscles.

"Sure it is," she said softly. "That's why you have a knot the size of a grapefruit back here."

"El, really…"

"What did Neal do now?"

He actually laughed – a short, sharp laugh that didn't quite convey humor. "Honestly, this time he didn't do anything. At least not that I know of."

She rubbed harder, her fingers moving along his neck. "So why do I get the feeling that he's involved anyway."

"El, really, it might turn out to be nothing." _And maybe this would be the year he caught Santa Claus coming down their chimney._

"Uh huh." She moved back, patting his shoulder. "Lie down, let me work on this – while you talk."

He obeyed, knowing he could do nothing else. Laying face down on the bed, he pulled her pillow on top of his to get comfortable as he felt her straddle his hips. "I really don't know much yet."

"Tell me what you do know."

Her fingers worked deep into his muscles; it was more effective than any torture in getting him to talk. "We had the budget meeting yesterday," he started.

"I know. You always get tense after those, but not like this before."

"Yeah, well, this one was even worse than usual." He paused, sighing as her fingers worked down lower on his shoulders. _Forget Dr. Tannenbaum and his magic fingers – El was the one with the appendages that could work miracles._ "El, they're specifically cutting out the fund that pays Neal's stipend, and his lodging at June's."

"What? Why would they do that?"

"I don't know."

"Well, isn't there someplace else the money can come from? I mean, if I go over an estimate on catering, I can usually cover it someplace else, like on flowers or something."

"I wish it was that easy. The trouble is that Neal's release agreement – the one we signed the second time, after Kate's death – is specifically tied to this fund. I didn't think anything of it at the time. I just knew I had to get him out of there before something happened… and, I wanted my partner back."

"Did they cut any other funds?"

"Cut, yes – but not eliminate."

"Honey, we know Neal isn't really living on that stipend. And I'm sure June doesn't really need the seven hundred dollars…"

Peter carefully rolled over, pulling her down by his side so he could look in her eyes. "But that's just it El, I don't think it would matter if he said he'd work for free. His release is tied specifically to payments that _must_ be made, from this particular fund."

She reached up, brushing her fingers along his temple. "You don't think it's an accident that this cut came through."

He sighed, putting all of his frustration into it. "An accident? No. But I can't prove anything. No one's answering calls from me, or from Hughes. I've got someone from Legal looking at the contract, trying to see if there's some way around this."

"What does Neal say?" she asked carefully.

He knew his face, and his silence, gave away the answer as clearly as any words.

"You haven't told him."

"Tell him what? 'Hey, Neal, great job you've been doing. Keep it up for the next four months. And then sorry, but you're going back to prison.'" He shook his head slowly. "I'm trying to find some answers, some options, first."

She sighed, resting her head on his chest. "You can't keep it a secret long. You know he'll figure out something is wrong."

_He's probably already suspicious…_

"I know," he agreed, wrapping an arm around the wonderful woman he had married and hugging her tight. "I just need a few days, to try and get some kind of answer."

* * *

"I knew it! I knew that this would come to no good. But do you ever listen to me? Nooooo. Of course not."

"Actually, I listen to you quite a bit, Moz," Neal said, trying to sound very reasonable.

"Hmmmmph." Mozzie raised a chopstick, shaking it. "I warned you against the deal with the Suit in the first place, did I not?"

"You did."

"But did you listen?"

"No, I didn't."

"Hah! My point exactly."

Neal sighed and got up to pace. "Moz, this is coming from way above Peter. He and Hughes have been getting stonewalled trying to find out where it's coming from."

"So they'd have you think."

"Okay, play along for now, Moz. Let's assume I'm right on this, just for a minute."

"Fine." Mozzie got up and came to stand next to Neal by the open patio doors. "Assuming for now that the local Suit is not behind this, what are you thinking?"

"It feels kind of personal," Neal admitted. _And wasn't that more like something Mozzie should be saying?_

"Are there any other full time consultants affected by this?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Then I'd say it's personal."

"Thanks. I never would have guessed," Neal said dryly.

"You asked."

"I did," Neal agreed. "Think you can break through the stonewall Peter and Hughes are getting?"

"I may have some resources the Suits don't."

"Just… be careful," Neal said slowly. "This has a bad feel to it. It could be something Larrsen…"

Mozzie's hand jerked to his chest – just about where the scar was from the bullet that had nearly killed him. "I had a bad feeling that name was going to come up."

"There's no proof," Neal said quickly. "But we know the man pulling his strings, and Fowler's, has some pretty good connections."

"Maybe enough pull for a line item veto on some funds."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Nothing would make me happier than to track that bastard down."

"Yeah, me too."

Mozzie considered the night sky for a moment before speaking again. "Say the money thing doesn't work out," he said slowly. "What then?"

Neal made his own concentrated sweep of the skyline before responding. "I don't know if I can go back inside, Moz," he admitted, his voice a whisper. "I'm a known FBI consultant. I've helped get quite a few people convicted."

"It would not be pretty," Mozzie agreed, shaking his head slowly. "And it might very well be an extremely short stay, with a painful ending."

"Yeah." Despite the warm August night, Neal felt a shiver run through his body.

"I can start liquidating assets."

Neal sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stepped out onto the patio.

Mozzie followed slowly. "Let me guess, you don't want to run either."

"Running is hard work, Moz."

"I know. But if it keeps you alive, I'd say the effort is worthwhile."

Neal leaned over the railing, studying the city he loved. "It's not like before. Moz. I've got something here. I've put down roots…"

"And so, another great one falls."

"You make me sound like a tree, Moz."

"You're the one who mentioned roots," Mozzie countered. "Anyway, there is precedent in nature for a cutting to be taken from the parent plant, and grow new roots – somewhere else."

"Thanks for the gardening advice."

"Any time. Now, about the liquidating?"

Neal shook his head, turning away from the railing. "I don't think anything is happening until January. There's still time."

"And what if the Suits decide this makes you a flight risk and move the timetable up?"

_Well, Peter wouldn't do that… but with the mysterious puppeteer out there somewhere, all bets were off._ "Maybe you should make sure there's some cash on hand, just in case."

Mozzie nodded. "Consider it done," he said, heading back inside. "After we finish that excellent bottle of wine."


	6. Back to Work

As dull as surveillance could sometimes be, Peter found that this time it was a welcomed relief from the pressures of the office.

The park wasn't an ideal place for observation, but Jones and Diana had set up a good plan. He reached over, panning the camera that had been set up.

Jones had drawn the hot dog cart this time, and he was making a sale. A woman handed over some cash, taking two hot dogs in return and handing them to the two young boys with her. They ran off, joining a man and a little girl who were sitting on a blanket on the grass.

Diana and Drew were playing a lazy game of Frisbee on another patch of grass. He smiled as he watched the woman make a fancy catch under her leg. _Not bad._

There were four other agents in the park, reading newspapers, watching birds. Combined with the two agents in the van with him, and the plainclothes NYPD detectives on call around the corner, they had good coverage.

He flipped to another camera, watching as Neal strolled casually into the park. The white carnation in his lapel looked out of place, and he knew Neal had grumbled about it. But it was the recognition sign that the contact had insisted on.

Neal looked relaxed and natural as he made his way to the isolated bench described in the message. Relaxed, even though he was meeting a thief, with no idea what that other man was like. And yet he knew Neal was acutely aware of his surroundings, despite appearances.

_That's the skill Peter wished he could master._

Another man came into view, walking toward Neal. In contrast, however, this guy was glancing around every other step, obviously nervous. He had a wrapped roll of something under his arm.

_Like maybe paintings, cut out of the frames and rolled up…_

Peter reached over and keyed the microphone. "Possible suspect approaching from the south. White male, approximately forty, red hair, blue jeans, green polo."

A number of clicks responded as the agents keyed their radios in acknowledgement. Jones moved the cart a little closer to Neal's position, and Diana overthrew Drew, forcing him in closer as well as she followed.

The man stopped in front of Neal, shifting from foot to foot. For his part, Neal just looked up slowly, nodding.

Peter pressed the headphones closer to his ears, listening. Neal, of course, was playing the role of a fence flawlessly. _Well, the man had had enough practice on the other side of the equation._

As the conversation came around to money, Neal insisted on seeing the paintings to evaluate any damage. _Good, good, this was it…_

The man leaned over the bench, unrolling his package. Neal leaned over the contents, studying.

"_An impressive collection," Neal's voice said in the headphones. "Let's do business."_

Peter keyed his microphone again. "All right, that's the signal. Neal has the artwork. Move in. Move in!"

Around the park agents started to move…

So did the suspect, reaching into the waistband of his jeans, coming out with a gun.

"No, no, no. There weren't supposed to be guns," Peter muttered. "Keep monitoring," he ordered one of the other agents as he threw open the van's door and ran out, toward the park.

The action was over by the time he got there. Jones was putting the handcuffs on the suspect. Neal was getting up from the ground, dusting himself off, and handing a gun over to Diana.

"What happened?"

Diana grinned. "Neal made an open field tackle that would make Darrelle Revis proud."

"Good job on that," Peter acknowledged. "But why didn't anyone catch that the guy was carrying?"

Jones tugged on the man's green polo as the suspect was led away. "Loose shirt," he said. "Sorry, Neal."

Neal shrugged. "No problem. It worked out. I hope you got that tackle on tape though," he said, turning to look at Peter. "Just in case I need to make a career change."

_Career change? Could Neal know…_ "Not for the next twenty one months," Peter said, hoping his voice wasn't shaking. "You've got other plans."

"Right."

Peter turned, unable to meet the younger man's gaze. "Except for missing the gun, that was a good job everyone. And really good job getting the guy to commit himself, Neal," he added, chancing a quick glance.

"Thanks."

"All right, we'll debrief back at the office," Peter continued. "Let's clean up here."

* * *

Neal followed Jones toward the hot dog cart, though he kept stealing glances in Peter's direction. _Interesting that the agent couldn't seem to look him in the eye. Did it confirm Neal's theory that Peter was feeling frustrated about not being able to find out who cut his budget? Or did it play into Mozzie's theory that the Suit was part of the group making the decisions?_

Well, he wasn't going to find out here in the park. Better to just keep quiet and watch for a bit.

"Do I get my hot dog now?"

Jones grinned. "Sure. Extra mustard coming up."

Neal watched, smiling, as the agent put the hot dog together…

"That'll be four dollars."

The smile vanished. "What?"

Jones pointed at the pricing sign on the cart. "Four dollars."

"I just tackled a guy with a gun – something that is _not_ in my job description, by the way – and you still expect me to pay for the hot dog?"

"Hey, man, I gotta account for my inventory."

Neal rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket. "Where does the money from this actually go?"

"We donate it. This month it's the children's hospital."

Neal grinned and handed over a twenty dollar bill. "In that case, keep the change."

Jones returned the grin as he turned to wave some of the other agents over. "Now I just have to sell out."

Neal stepped away, making room around the cart. Biting into his hot dog, he savored the taste. _He might never buy a pack of hot dogs for his kitchen, but there was nothing quite like a New York street dog…_

He pulled the white carnation from his lapel, offering it, with a bow, to a young girl who was walking by with her dog.

And then his eyes found Peter. The agent was standing across the street, directing the activities of several people gathered around the van.

_What's going on, Peter? And when are you going to tell me?_

* * *

Peter found his team assembled in the conference room, though not exactly in working mode. Neal and Diana were playing some strange form of table football, with Neal's rubber band ball in play. Jones seemed to be officiating, and alternately cheering for whoever made the best move.

"Oh, yes, he scores!"

Diana put her hands on her hips and glared at both men. "I thought bouncing the ball off the back of a chair wasn't allowed."

Neal grinned and picked up the ball, tossing it into the air. "Diana, really, how can you argue the rules in a made up game that doesn't have any?" He settled into a chair, tossing the ball up into the air again and snagging it neatly with one hand.

"Yeah, what he said," Jones agreed, laughing as he sat down too.

Diana huffed, but she was smiling too. "Next time I get to make up the non-rules."

"All right, children, back to business," Peter said, trying to bring the room to order. It was almost too bad though – he liked seeing his team coming together like this. _And now someone was trying to tear that apart…_

He tossed folders and an assortment of pencils down in front of each of them. "All right, there were civilians in the area, and an uncovered gun, so you know the drill. Sketch out the scene – where you were, where everyone else was, where everything happened." He rapped the table in front of the team's consultant. "And Neal, this time, there's no need to draw in every blade of grass."

"What about the birds?"

"Birds?" Peter shook his head in amazement. "Did the birds play a role in the take down?"

"Well, no, but they were chirping…"

"No birds."

Neal rolled his eyes and picked up his pencil. "Whatever happened to capturing all the details?" he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

"You missed the qualifier of 'relevant' – stick to relevant details, Neal."

"I always feel like a two year old just learning to hold a crayon when I draw around Neal," Jones complained.

Neal perked up. "Ooooh, do we have some crayons? This would be much more authentic…"

"No," Peter said quickly, cutting the younger man off. "No crayons."

"I always liked burnt umber," Diana said.

Jones grinned. "Sea foam green here. Neal?"

"The whole rainbow of the sixty four color box," Neal said, quite seriously. His concentration never left the paper in front of him as his pencil flew across the page. "You need way more than sixty four colors to capture life, but it's a start."

Peter threw his hands up in surrender. "I'm going to get you all coloring books," he threatened.

"I like the activity books," Neal said. "Coloring pages, mazes, dot to dots…"

Diana finished one section of her sketch, the pencil flying off the page with a flourish. "I always liked the ones where you painted the page with water and colors appeared."

Peter just shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "All right, sketches on my desk within the hour. And I want your full write-ups on my desk by the end of the day."

The others watched as the senior agent walked out, heading into his office.

"That might be a record," Jones said.

"Yeah," Diana agreed. "He gave up a lot sooner than normal."

Neal looked up from his sketch, leaning back in his chair so he could see into Peter's office. Even now the senior agent was at his desk, simultaneously checking messages on his desk phone and his cell phone, and opening up his e-mail.

_Still looking for answers…_

* * *

_Still no replies…_

Peter locked his computer screen and stalked out of his office, heading for the corner office. The door was open, and he could see Hughes sitting at his desk, head in his hands.

"Reese?"

"Peter." The older man sighed, looking up. "I hear congratulations are in order."

"We caught the thief," Peter confirmed. "He had the stolen paintings with him."

"Caffrey confirmed they were authentic?"

"Yes."

"Any problems?"

"Well, the suspect got a hidden gun into the operating area."

"Shots fired?"

"No."

"Well, you had good agents on the detail."

Peter sighed and dropped into a chair. "It wasn't an agent who took the guy down," he said slowly.

Realization hit Hughes quickly. "Caffrey?"

Peter nodded. "I'll have to watch the tape, but Diana said it was one hell of a tackle."

"He's all right?"

"He's fine…" Peter stood up suddenly, pacing toward the window. "Damn it, Hughes! He's not an agent, not trained for this, but it's not the first time he's kept a situation from maybe getting much worse. And yet…" He paused, taking a deep breath. "I assume you haven't gotten any more answers than I have?"

The older man shook his head. "All my years in the Bureau, I've never been stonewalled like this."

Peter sat down again, slumping in his chair. "You should listen to the tape, Reese. He was spot on. You'd never know he hadn't been in the fencing business for years."

"Well, he has had some experience on the other side of that equation," Hughes pointed out.

"Yeah, I know. But the point is, every curve the suspect threw, Neal countered without a flinch. That's a real skill, not something you can just train any agent to do."

"I know the value he's brought to your team, Peter. And we still have time…"

"Oh, there's time until January," Peter agreed. "But how can I keep asking him to go out there like today, maybe facing a gun, without telling him it might all be for nothing?"

Hughes leaned forward, leaning his arms on the desk. "A few more days," he recommended. "Something has to break. _Someone_ will break."

Peter just nodded and then stood up slowly. "A few days," he agreed. "I'm going to go sit in on the interrogation, see where this art thief leads us."

He walked out, heading down the stairs and through the bullpen without stopping. It was easier that way, because the more time he spent around Neal, the more chances there were that the other man would see that something was wrong.

_If he hadn't guessed already…_

* * *

"You have stepped in some deep doo doo, my friend."

Neal stepped into his apartment, closing the door behind him. "Hello to you too, Moz."

"Yeah, while we spend time on societal norms of greeting, you are sinking further and further."

"Into doo."

"Doo."

Neal hung his jacket over the back of a chair and picked up the bottle of wine Mozzie had opened. "Nice choice."

"For all my help, the least you can do is keep a good selection of the grape on hand."

Neal nodded in agreement and retrieved a second glass. "I'll do my best." He took a sip of the wine and sat down at the table, gesturing toward the documents Mozzie had spread out there. "So, tell me."

Mozzie sat down, straightening the various piles. "Do you want the long version or the short version?"

"Let's start with the short and fill in details later."

"Well, the short version is that you have made someone's ultra top secret hit list."

Neal raised an eyebrow and reached for the document Mozzie was holding out. "Meaning?"

"There is a flag on your name in the FBI system. Any mention of you and a top secret, classified, eyes only message goes to someone very high up. The user of the computer making the inquiry receives a quick and decisive message to cease and desist any further inquiries. Unless the inquiry comes from the New York office, in which case there is simply silence."

"So if Peter and Hughes are really trying to get information…"

"The people they are contacting are told not to make any follow up."

Neal hesitated before asking the big question. "Do we know who's getting notified at the top?"

Mozzie shook his head, frustration evident on his face. "Thus far, the mastermind has evaded my attempts at discovery."

"I'm… shocked," Neal said, genuinely at a loss. _It was a rare day when the solution to a puzzle had eluded Mozzie._

"I didn't say I was giving up."

"Of course not."

"But more and more, I would say that your previous theory that this is connected to Larrsen may be correct," Mozzie added softly, rubbing his chest over the scar the gunman had put there.

Neal nodded, sipping his wine, thinking. _It was looking more likely… but what, if anything, could he do about it?_

* * *

Peter sat in the dark, beer in hand, the TV flickering on ESPN's Sports Center. Normally, he'd have been paying rapt attention, what with the start of the college football and NFL seasons just around the corner.

Tonight, he could have been watching the ballet for all he was paying attention.

He'd been in a crappy mood all night, and he knew it. Fortunately, El hadn't pushed him. She knew it was still about Neal – and that he still hadn't found a way to save his partner.

His friend.

He smiled, a bittersweet smile, as he took a pull on the beer bottle. It seemed like so very long ago when he had come downstairs that first morning to find the newly released con man sitting on his couch, talking to his wife, playing with his dog. So very long ago that something like that had bothered him.

Now, it surprised him when more than a few days went by _without_ Neal showing up unannounced. And as much as he might grumble about it, he didn't really mind sharing his breakfast cereal.

_And what would he do if the other man showed up in the morning, not knowing anything was wrong? Peter knew his limits. He could go undercover – to a point. Oh, he'd never be as smooth as Neal at playing a role. But Peter had the law on his side, and he believed in that, strongly. It gave him the ability to lie to marks – an ability he'd never been successful at with people he cared about, like El…_

_Neal might be reaching that category too._

Peter finished his beer and stood up, reaching for the remote. He pressed the power button, turning the television off and headed for the kitchen to drop off the empty bottle.

Neal hadn't stopped by for a few days, which might mean he was due. And Peter had no illusion that he could maintain his façade of 'nothing in the world wrong here' in front of both his wife and Neal.

_Not to mention that El was quite unhappy with his decision to wait on telling Neal the news, even though she understood his reasons._

So, maybe he needed to bite the bullet and pick Neal up in the morning. There was a new case to talk about, and Peter could get quite involved with that.

Yeah, that was the plan. Pick Neal up, and keep busy talking about the case.

_And try not to feel guilty about sending the man into harm's way – again – while keeping a huge secret…_


	7. Into the Light

"_Neal, I'm picking you up. Be ready by 7:00."_

Neal rubbed the towel across his wet hair as he played the message on his phone. That was interesting – Peter hadn't picked him up for a few days.

_He wondered what it meant…_

No, better to not try and read too much into it.

He dropped the towel over a chair, and followed it with the towel from around his waist. Making his way to the wardrobe, he selected a suit for the day, and paired it with the appropriate shirt and tie. Underwear and socks from the chest of drawers, and he was set.

He dressed quickly, combed out his hair, and then gathered the towels to put in the laundry hamper in the bathroom. The housekeeper had brought up the usual coffee service and some rolls, and he poured a cup now.

The clock read 6:53 – _perfect. Time to enjoy the coffee and be downstairs on time._

_Or maybe he'd be two minutes late, just because it annoyed Peter…_

* * *

Peter stepped into the entryway, nodding his thanks to the housekeeper who had opened the door. He looked at the stairs, debating about going up…

No, actually going to Neal's apartment seemed way too personal right now.

He walked back and forth in the hallway, planning his discussion points for the car. The case file had been messengered over last night, and it was a perfect distraction. A gallery had been hit, with several priceless antiquities now missing. The thief had managed to avoid all of the security systems, including video surveillance that wasn't even connected to the other alarms.

Add in the fact that there were some striking similarities to a job in Pittsburgh a few weeks before, and there should be plenty to intrigue Neal on the drive to the office.

"Good morning, Peter."

He started, unaware that anyone had come close. "June. Good morning."

"I haven't seen you come by for a few days."

"Well, I can't spoil him too much, right?" He batted the case file against his leg nervously.

June's eyes followed the activity, obviously missing nothing. "What's wrong? I hope Neal isn't in some kind of trouble."

"No, no, nothing like that." _But the words came out too fast, and he knew the moment he said them that he was in trouble._

"Peter, what is it?"

He decided on a modified version of the truth. "Oh, it's just budget season," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "There are just some issues with the fund that pays Neal's expenses."

"Well, if it helps, you know I don't really need the seven hundred dollars you pay me each month."

_Oh, if only it was that easy…_ "Thank you, June. I appreciate the offer. But I'm still trying to track down where these funding decisions came from."

She smiled and touched his arm. "Oh, I understand that. I'm on several charitable boards, and I deal with strange budget decisions all the time."

He forced a smile onto his face. "I guess you do understand. And really, it's nothing Neal needs to worry about. I get all the budget headaches."

"Ah, the perils of being in charge." June stepped away, stopping at the concierge table to pick up her purse and keys. "Well, I'm off to help do some early set up for the benefit fair for the children's hospital this weekend. Neal has offered to help with the face painting. I'm expecting to see tiny Monets and Picassos adorning the children's cheeks. He really is a dear boy."

Peter rolled his eyes in what he thought was a pretty good imitation of his normal response to statements like that. "You spoil him when he hears you say things like that."

June just laughed and patted his arm. "No, just giving a young man who's trying to find his way his due."

Peter deflected that by going back to the event. "You know, Elizabeth is an event planner. She might be able to help."

"Oh, she already is," June replied. "Neal called her for me a few weeks ago." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I believe your wife has some plans for you at the fair."

He felt his stomach drop at that news, but he managed to smile. "I'll just bet she does."

June laughed again, and he had the distinct impression that she had just read his mind. "Well, I'm off. I hope you and Neal have a good day."

"You too, June."

He watched as she made her way toward the side door, where he knew her car would be waiting. And then he pulled his coat sleeve up, looking at his watch.

_7:02_

"Caffrey," he grumbled, starting up the stairs.

* * *

"Oh, this is slick," Neal said, studying something in the file.

"So it's better than another mortgage fraud case?"

Neal rolled his eyes. "Worlds better." He caught himself, realizing what he had just said, and grinned. "Not that I think stealing from the Wentworth is good, of course."

Peter nodded sagely. "Of course."

"But this is _way_ more interesting," Neal continued, turning his attention back to the file.

"So what do you think?"

They'd been driving for a few minutes, in a silence that was not quite comfortable, but not really _un_comfortable either.

_Just strange,_ Peter decided.

Neal's face held just a trace of a smile as he answered. "What do I think? I think it's going to rain this afternoon. I think I'll need an umbrella tonight for Samantha's piano recital. I think your suit should be retired and burned, just like an old flag. I think there are too many secrets in the world. I think I wish I'd brought a cup of June's coffee…"

"I meant about the case," Peter said, tapping the folder Neal had been looking at. "And what's wrong with my suit?"

_Better to let the comment about secrets go for now…_

"I don't even know where to start."

"About the case or the suit? And I don't know how you can even complain, not with the clothes from the sixties that you wear."

"Classics never go out of style, Peter. On the other hand, that suit you're wearing was never _in_ style."

Peter sighed and tapped the folder again. "What about the case? Do you know this Wentworth Gallery?"

"I know _of_ it. Mozzie really likes it."

"Never been there?"

Neal shook his head. "The Wentworth is fairly new. It opened while I was in prison. And now it's outside my radius." He paused, glancing over at Peter. "Are you checking my tracking data to make sure I didn't pay a visit last night?"

"Should I?"

Neal sighed, and for a change, Peter thought it sounded genuine. "I was at home all night, Peter. Mozzie was there for a while, and then I was alone. Not the greatest alibi, I know. But assuming no one has hacked the tracking database again, it should show that I was nowhere near the Wentworth." He paused, and added, more quietly. "Or I could just tell you that I didn't do it."

"Never thought you did," Peter replied. "Any ideas on how it was done?"

"Maybe a couple. But I'd like to see the layout at the gallery first."

"Sure. What about the items taken here and in Pittsburgh? The computer made a potential match in age and theme."

"Egyptian, third century BC. Could be. Are there more photos in the full case files?"

"Probably."

"I know someone who could probably tell us more about the items, and any connection between them."

"Mozzie is an Egyptian authority too?"

"Well, he probably knows quite a bit about it. But I actually had someone else in mind."

"Thief, or fence?"

Neal shook his head and turned to look out of the passenger window again. "Believe it or not, Peter, I do know people who have no connection to the world of crime."

There was something about the weariness in the younger man's voice that made Peter regret his assumption. "I'm sorry. I admit, that's not the first guess that comes to mind with you. So who is he?"

"She. A professor at Cornell, with a specialty in ancient civilzations."

"Cornell. Isn't that one of the schools you conned your way into as an instructor?"

"Conned is such a negative word…"

"Neal…"

"Visiting professor of art history, yes." A small smile crossed his face. "And that class walked away with a lot of knowledge."

"I'll bet. And how much loot did you walk away with?"

"Loot? Another ugly word. And the answer is, I didn't steal anything from Cornell. Well, maybe a few pens or something. Normal stuff."

"Then why do it?" Peter asked, genuinely confused.

"Why teach at Cornell? It was a challenge. And, I used the time, and their excellent library, to hone my knowledge in other areas."

"Knowledge you could use to pull other jobs."

"Hypothetically."

"So who is this professor?"

"Dr. Gayle Hunt. PhD., Professor of Archeology. With a side Master's in Anthropology."

"Figure she's still speaking to you?"

"I imagine the news that I wasn't a degreed professor probably didn't go over well. But we were pretty close back then. I think she'll talk to me."

"Well, it's an option to keep in mind. I want to stop at the office, brief in Jones and Diana. Then we can go check the gallery out and plan from there."

Neal just nodded and turned back to stare out of the window.

This time, Peter let the silence ride.

* * *

It didn't take long on site before Neal was able to confirm his suspicion on how the thief – or thieves – had gained access to the Wentworth Gallery and pulled off the theft. A combination of poor camera angles on the surveillance set up, combined with an alarm system without a sufficient emergency power supply, led to vulnerabilities.

Add in the skylight, which provided wonderful natural light during the day, but also turned into an easy access point when the alarm system was short circuited, and the perpetrators had had, in effect, an open door.

"I just don't understand," Maggie Shepherd, the gallery's curator said, after Neal and Peter walked her through the problems. "We had a very reputable security contractor make the arrangements when this gallery was built."

"We'd like to see the information on that contractor," Peter said. "Do you by any chance remember the name?"

"Oh, dear. Goldman? Goldfarb? I'm afraid I have a better memory for artists and antiquities than for things like that. But I'll have my assistant find all the information and send it to you."

"It might help to have the names of the building contractors and the designer too," Neal suggested.

Maggie nodded. "Of course. I'll see what I can find. Is there anything else you need from me right now? Otherwise, I can go start on this."

"No, I think we have what we need for right now," Peter replied. "We'll just take another look around, to be sure."

"Well, I'll be in my office if you need me."

Peter watched the curator leave and then turned to Neal. "The building contractors?"

Neal pointed up at the skylight. "That's a really strange feature to put on a fairly new building like this. A building that is going to need heavy security features."

"Could still just be a security system issue," Peter countered. "If there had been a better backup system…"

"Not much of a difference," Neal said. "A skylight like that, there are only so many ways to wire the security alarms. Even if the alarm has a backup power supply, that's fairly easy to bypass." he paused, and grinned. "Hypothetically, that is, from what I've heard."

"Uh huh." Peter stared up at the skylight, thinking. "But a lot of museums and galleries have skylights."

"Sure," Neal agreed. "But they're mostly older buildings, a lot of them erected before lighting improved to where natural light can be mostly replicated."

"So the skylights would provide the natural light, and make the displays look better."

"Right. Now, natural light is still better. And it's easier on some types of art. But with the tools available now to defeat security systems…"

"Which you would know all about."

"Isn't that why you _pay_ me, Peter?"

Peter just stared at his partner for a long, silent moment. _Had he mis-heard the emphasis on the word 'pay' in that statement? _ "So you wouldn't put a skylight into a building like this."

"No. At least, not unless I was willing to put a whole lot more money into a security system."

"So it would be possible to make it impregnable?"

"Impregnable? No. There's no such thing."

"Oh, so I suppose you figure you could stroll into Fort Knox and make a little gold withdrawal?"

"Fort Knox is hardly impregnable," Neal explained. "It's just protected well enough that no one has decided the risks are worth trying."

"You really think Fort Knox is vulnerable?"

"Sure. With the right group of experts."

"Neal, so help me, if you actually planned…"

"I didn't _plan_ anything, Peter. Not about Fort Knox, anyway. But it may have been a topic of discussion in prison. You know, bonding over a shared pursuit."

"So should I be issuing an all points bulletin for a group of ex-cons heading for Kentucky?"

Neal shook his head. "Not for that group. None of the ones who have been released have the IQ to even get close."

"Except you?"

Neal stared at Peter for a long moment before answering. "I'm really not planning to rob Fort Knox, Peter. Besides, Kentucky is a little outside my radius," he added, pointing at his left ankle.

"Yeah, I'd catch you before you got there," Peter said, grinning to try and lighten the mood again. "All right, back to the skylight. The contractor could have known about the vulnerability?"

"Yeah, could have. Or the architect could have known. Or they might have just been trying to put natural light in here, without knowing the risk."

"Which puts us back to the security company."

Neal nodded. "And maybe they're in on some kind of scheme. Or just negligent. Or the owners hired an inexperienced company to save money."

"That's a lot of options," Peter said, sighing.

"And it doesn't include the further option that someone connected to the gallery discovered the weak spots and passed the word on."

Peter nodded. "An inside job is always a possibility, I guess. I already have Jones gathering the personnel records." He took one more look at the skylight and shook his head. "All right, anything else you want to look at here?"

"There's a _lot_ I want to look at here," Neal said. "But I guess it's not case related."

_Ah, the comment from the car, that Mozzie spoke highly of the Wentworth but Neal couldn't go…_ "Look, we have a lot of records to pull, and there's not much more you can do until we have all of the information gathered. If you want to take a couple of hours here and look around…"

"Really?"

The look of pure surprise and pleasure on Neal's face made Peter feel guilty – again. "Just be back at the office by 2:00, all right?"

"Sure. No problem."

"And nothing new will go missing, right?"

"Nope. Scout's honor." Neal raised his fingers, and then crossed his heart.

"Were you actually ever a Boy Scout?"

"Sure, for two years," Neal replied. "That's where I learned all about being prepared," he added, grinning.

"Heaven help us all," Peter said, looking skyward and shaking his head. "Just remember, 2:00. Don't be late."

* * *

"He actually let you stay at the gallery, outside your radius?"

"Yeah, he did."

"No pleading or threats of a tantrum on your part?"

"Moz, I didn't even ask. He volunteered it."

Mozzie stared across the table, finger raised. "That is very unlike the Suit."

"Tell me about it," Neal replied. "Actually, you don't need to tell me about it. I know it's unusual. Even when I ask, I usually just get the lecture about how I broke the law and the limit on my movements is a fair punishment. Oh, and then the threat that the radius could be tightened."

"Right, so this was very un-Suit-like. What do you think it means?"

"Moz, you're the one who can usually find meaning in everything."

"True," Mozzie conceded. "And it's obvious, really. The Suit feels guilty."

"But guilty about what?" Neal pressed. "Guilty because he hasn't told me about the funding cut? Or guilty because he had something to do with it?"

"Yes, that is the question." Mozzie drained his wine glass and reached for the bottle to refill it. "I'm still working on tracing where that alert on your name in the FBI system is going."

"This guy must be really good to hide his tracks like that."

"Unfortunately," Mozzie agreed. "But I'm still working on it."

"Thanks, Moz."

"So, what did you think of the Wentworth?"

That brought a genuine smile to Neal's face. "You were right," he said. "They have an excellent collection…"

* * *

The rain of the previous two days had passed on, and Saturday was bright and cheery. All in all, it was a perfect late summer day in New York City, and the turnout for the children's hospital benefit showed it. The park was filled, with happy, laughing children, relaxed parents, and various members of the hospital's staff mingling.

Peter made his way carefully through the crowd, carrying several large boxes of hot dog buns. Just as June had predicted, El had _volunteered_ him to help. So far today he had schlepped about a zillion assorted boxes, bags, crates, and carts of stuff, by his own conservative estimate.

He didn't really mind though. Seeing all of the children, many of whom had been, or still were, patients at the hospital, but who were having a great time today, made it worthwhile. _He and El had agreed to wait on starting a family. Maybe it was time to have the discussion again…_

The good weather, and the happy atmosphere helped relax him too, taking his mind off of certain pressures from the office – mostly, anyway. He couldn't quite escape thoughts of work, because he couldn't avoid thinking about Neal.

The man's artwork was everywhere.

He honestly had to admit that he had never seen face painting like this before. Neal didn't just do a small heart or a rainbow on a cheek – he did _face_ painting. Rainbows covered the whole surface, the colors blending with the wearer's smile. Instead of a small unicorn drawing, the child _became_ a unicorn, complete with a sparkling horn and equine features. There were many small dragons and dinosaurs running around.

Several of the other agents had been drawn into the event as well, apparently conned into helping by _someone_. He'd seen Drew earlier, though it had been hard to recognize the young man past the lion artwork adorning his face. Jones had been transformed into a Klingon. And Diana had a series of delicate feathers on her face that gave her a very bird-like appearance.

He made it to the food stand and put his load of boxes down as he looked around for his wife. _She was the one who looked like a cat today…_

"Oh, thanks, honey."

He turned, smiling at the vision of feline, and female, perfection in front of him. "Hey, that's what us big, strong men are for," he joked, cocking his arm up to make a muscle.

El grinned, which had the effect of making her nose, and her delicately drawn whiskers, scrunch up. "You know, you should get Neal to do something on your face."

"Yeah, maybe he could make me a donkey – a beast of burden."

"What a wonderful idea!"

"No. No, it's not a wonderful idea." _Letting Neal loose around his face with paints would be such a very, __very__ bad idea…_

She laughed and took his arm, leaning against his shoulder. "Well, the children are enjoying the face art. Just look at them! Neal does good work with them."

"It's because he's just a big kid himself," Peter grumbled, though there was a hint of a smile on his face and in his voice.

"And nothing wrong with that!"

"I guess. Not when it comes to something like this anyway."

El pulled out a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. "June brought this over. Look at how much his face painting booth has brought in in donations."

Peter unfolded the paper and glanced down at the listings. The hot dog stand had done well, cotton candy looked very popular, neck and neck with mini donuts, and face painting… "Wow."

"Yeah, wow."

"Talking about me?"

They both turned, and Peter got his first close-up glimpse of the artist in question since very early that morning. Neal's trademark grin was in place, and his blue eyes still sparkled familiarly, but the rest of his face was almost unrecognizable. The delicate artwork almost looked like real fur, even fairly close up. And there were spots drawn across his face, along with whiskers much like those adorning El's face. "What are you supposed to be?"

"A jaguar, of course," Neal replied. "Samantha chose for me."

"Oh, I saw the clown face you did for her," El said. "She is so cute!"

"Thanks. June really liked it too." Neal turned toward Peter. "Speaking of June, she was looking for you. She's over by the stage."

"I was just getting to that," El confirmed. "She has something else she'd like you to do."

"More lifting and toting, I suppose," he said.

The suppressed giggles on the part of his wife and Neal as they jointly pushed him toward the stage were his first clue that it might be something else…

* * *

"_Well, Peter, since you haven't got a face painting, we were wondering if you'd mind…"_

The conversation replayed itself in his mind as he sat perched precariously on the seat of the dunk tank. _Senior FBI agents did not do dunk tanks…_

And yet, here he sat, waiting and watching as child after child stepped up with their three balls for a dollar and tossed them at the target. Fortunately, no one had managed to hit the swing arm yet and send him tumbling into the water tank below.

_In fact, most of the balls thrown by the children so far had fallen well short of the target, so he was probably pretty safe…_

The thought stopped midway in his mind as a familiar looking jaguar stepped up to the line, tossing a ball up into the air and catching it.

"Wait! I thought this was for kids."

"I don't see anything about that," Neal said, a dangerous smile on his face. A group of children had gathered around him and he turned to them. "Did you see any signs?"

"NO!"

"Do you want to see if I can dunk the FBI agent?"

"YES!"

Neal turned back to Peter, the grin growing. "Well, there you go, Peter. I'm here by popular demand."

The audience laughed, and Peter glared – trying to pinpoint the glare to where he saw Jones and Diana standing. But apparently it wasn't very effective, because they seemed to be laughing harder.

"All right, here we go," Neal said. He turned his body slightly, pulled his arm back, and then let the ball fly.

Heart in his throat, Peter watched… and breathed a sigh of relief as the ball came close enough to make the target shake, but didn't actually hit.

There was a groan from the audience, but Neal just held up another ball. "Second try."

This time there was a loud _CLANG!_ as the ball impacted solidly against the target. For a moment, nothing happened, and Peter had a split second to hope that the apparatus was broken. But after that slight delay, the seat collapsed against the tank, and he dropped into the water.

The very _cold_ water.

He came up sputtering, and it was a moment before he even became aware of the cheers from the crowd surrounding Neal. He could hear June's voice in the background announcing the new donation total following a dunking.

One of the volunteers was resetting the seat, and Peter slowly climbed back up. "All right, Neal, you had your fun."

But Neal had another ball in his hand, rolling it around with his long fingers. "Oh, I'm not done yet. It's three balls for a dollar." He turned to the gathered children. "If I get three balls for a dollar, and I paid twenty dollars, how much is that?"

"SIXTY!"

"Sixty!" Neal turned back to face the tank, and Peter swore those jaguar spots took on an evil look. "Sixty chances to raise donations for the hospital." He tossed the ball straight up and caught it again with one hand. "Oh, Peter, I'm just getting started."

_CLANG!_ The seat dropped again, and Peter fell into the water, to the sound of resounding cheers.

_Oh, it was going to be a very long afternoon…_

* * *

"I'm going to catch my death of cold."

"Oh, Peter, it was a perfectly warm day."

"El, the _water_ was cold!"

She took one hand off the steering wheel and reached over, patting his arm. "I'm sure it was honey. But remember, you're a big, strong man."

He pulled the rough car blanket tighter around his shoulder, wishing that he had removed his jeans before they started driving. _Wet denim was not fun to sit in._ "Do you know how many times I went into the water!" he demanded.

"Fifty one out of sixty." She pulled her hand back, using it to try – unsuccessfully – to stifle a giggle. "Neal was quite accurate."

"Accurate?" he shook his head. "I'm glad you can laugh. When I catch pneumonia…"

"The dunk tank raised almost as much money as the face painting."

"Yeah?" Some of the indignation eased. "I guess that's good."

"It's very good. The money is really needed to help the children."

"Well, I still don't think Neal had to be quite _that_ efficient."

"Actually, he was kind of upset that he missed on nine."

"Oh, I'll bet he was."

Her hand reached out for his arm again. "Peter, you can't let him go back to prison."

"I'm doing everything I can, El."

"Are you… are you going to tell him soon?"

Peter sighed as he looked into her eyes. "Yeah, I have to."


	8. Disclosure

The first three days of the new business week flew by as far as Peter was concerned. There was a flurry of activity around the Wentworth Gallery thefts. The curator's information had produced a sizeable list of contractors – building and security – and they all needed to be run down, people interviewed, backgrounds checked. There were some intriguing leads, but no smoking gun yet.

That just meant that even more digging was required.

So far, none of the various street sources – the Bureau's or Neal's – had heard of any rumored sales of newly acquired ancient Egyptian artifacts, so the motive for the theft remained murky as well. It wasn't all that common for a collector to perform his or her own break-ins, which left the scenario that an independent party had performed the job. But for that to be worth the risk, the perpetrators would need to have a buyer available.

Neal had been out in the field with Jones or Diana most of the time, either looking at other security systems designed by the gallery's contractor, or running down some off the record resources. Peter figured he had a pretty good idea where the tips on most of those sources came from – but 'Haversham' had been, somewhat understandably, reluctant to get actively involved with investigations since being shot and nearly killed.

Meanwhile, Peter had divided his time between following some leads himself, prioritizing new cases that wound up on his desk – and making increasingly desperate attempts to get answers from Washington. But if anything, the stone wall they had been hitting seemed higher and more impregnable than ever.

_No such thing as impregnable_.

Neal's words came back to him, in a grim way. And the fact was, Neal had resources – Mozzie – who could accomplish things that the Bureau simply couldn't through official channels.

It was time to tell Neal, and Hughes finally agreed.

He'd do it after the staff briefing on Thursday.

* * *

"So, how did it go?"

Neal closed the door and looked over at his visitor. "Are we eliminating the 'societal norms of greeting´completely then?"

"Fine. Hello, Neal."

"Hi, Mozzie."

"And now I repeat, how did it go?"

Neal dropped his jacket over the chair back, poured a glass of wine, and sat down at the table. "Your street sources were accommodating, but not very helpful in this case."

"Those artifacts are quite specific."

"You haven't heard anything?"

"I have inquiries out to everyone I know who deals in the old stuff."

Neal coughed a bit on some wine. "Old stuff. Yeah, I guess that describes it." _Though in his mind, calling precious antiquities 'old stuff' bordered on the sacrilegious…_

Mozzie dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "Yes, well, you said this might be connected to Pittsburgh, right?"

"There was a similar theft, yes."

"I have expanded my search – friends of friends and all. It's going to cost you a few bottles of wine."

Neal nodded at the nearly empty glass in front of the other man. "It always does."

Mozzie responded by draining his glass and reaching for the bottle to refill it. "A small price to pay," he intoned, taking a sip. "Although why you want to keep trying to help the Suits at this point is beyond me. And given my considerable intelligence and abilities, it takes quite a bit to be beyond me."

"I take it that you haven't found the mystery man yet."

"No. Though helping you with this case has taken my time away from that pursuit."

"I know, Moz. And I appreciate both." Neal got up, taking his wine with him, and headed for the patio. He could hear footsteps behind him as his friend followed. "I know it's hard to understand, Moz. But I need to keep doing my job. I gave my word. And after Peter put so much on the line for me after the whole deal with Fowler and the gun…"

"Your noble streak is going to be the death of you, my friend," Mozzie said softly.

Neal smiled and raised his goblet. "You may be right."

"You're _sure_ the Suit – as in _Peter_ – is not behind this."

It didn't escape Neal's notice that Mozzie made that a statement, not a question. "Yeah, I'm sure now," he replied. "Peter's not that good at keeping a secret, Moz. He's upset – mad, even – not guilty."

Mozzie rolled his eyes theatrically, clearly indicating his opinion on that topic, but he let it slide. "All right, I'll accept that for now. How did the class go?"

"Interesting," Neal started, leaning over the balcony and looking out over the city. The lights at night always fascinated him. "It's actually quite fascinating all the reasons that people don't finish high school."

"Was dropping out to go to Europe and case the Mona Lisa high on the list?"

Neal laughed. "Oddly enough, no one mentioned that one," he admitted. "And for the record, I was not casing the Mona Lisa. Though it would have been quite a coup."

"Well, I don't know why anyone even wants to go to the Louvre anymore, not with that glass monstrosity out front."

"Oh, I don't know," Neal said wistfully. "I was kind of hoping to see it again someday."

"I have your starter cash on hand," Mozzie offered. "Any time you want to…"

"I'm not ready to run, Moz."

"But you do realize that if you go back inside, your life expectancy drops dramatically."

"Yes, Moz, I know." Neal paused for another drink – of wine, and of the city. "Keep the cash handy," he said quietly. "If it comes to that, there may not…"

"Be much warning," Mozzie finished. "I know."

There was silence then, as both old friends stood at the railing, watching the city.

"You're really going to do this GED thing?" Mozzie finally asked.

Neal smiled in the darkness. "Sure, why not? The FBI is paying for it, and it might be fun."

"You never thought you needed a piece of paper before."

"True. But I'm curious where they think this might lead."

"No clue yet?"

"None. But I have to admit, I have had more pressing matters on my mind. The GED just seems kind of extra right now."

"Neal Caffrey, high school graduate."

"Has a ring to it, huh?"

"One more step down the slippery slope to respectability, my friend."

"Scary, huh?"

"Mortifying."

"We live in interesting times, Moz."

"We do indeed."

* * *

The team briefing was done, the assignments handed out. Peter drew in a deep breath – _now or never, and never was not an option._

"All right, that's it on the Wentworth," he said. "Let's try to break something on this." The others started gathering up their materials while Peter hesitated. "Neal… stay a minute, all right?"

Neal met his eyes, and Peter knew the other man understood this was not about the case at hand. "Maybe Diana and Jones should stay," Neal suggested.

The two junior agents paused, confused, looking to Peter for guidance. He finally set his jaw and nodded. _This would affect them too, after all, one way or another._

_Now if he only knew where to start…_

Diana finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Peter, what is it?"

Peter closed the door slowly and started to speak, but no words came out. It was Neal who finally answered. "He's trying to figure out how to tell us that the funding for consultants has been cut, and my contract is void as of January 1."

"What?" The single word came from both Diana and Jones in unison.

It was Peter's question that took priority though. "How… how did you know?"

"I saw the file in your desk."

Peter's fists clenched as he considered those words. "My desk was locked," he said. "My _office_ was locked!"

Neal shrugged, his expression clearly saying that Peter should know those were no impediments. "There was obviously something wrong, Peter, and you wouldn't say anything."

"Oh, so you just broke in."

"Sometimes you need to be saved from yourself, Peter."

Peter's sharp retort was cut off when he noticed his junior agents nodding in agreement. "What? You agree?"

"You do keep too much inside sometimes, boss," Diana said.

"We might have been able to help," Jones added.

Peter sank back into his chair. "I was trying to get answers before I said anything," he explained. "How long have you known?"

"The day after the budget meeting," Neal admitted.

"I'm getting video surveillance put in," Peter threatened. "And I'm getting an office safe," he added under his breath.

"That would make it slightly more challenging," Neal said.

"Is there money for a safe?" Jones asked, a definite note of sarcasm in his voice.

"Oh yeah," Peter responded. "With the right paperwork, I can get a safe. I can get a new office chair, a computer, a desk. I can get my office painted, for crying out loud!" He realized his voice had risen and he paused, taking a deep breath. "I just can't figure out how to keep Neal here after the end of the year."

"But if it's just a funding thing, can't we work around it?" Diana asked. "I mean, would June waive the payment she gets?"

"It's not that simple," Neal answered. "The second release I signed is tied directly to that fund."

Peter nodded in agreement. "I knew it was different than the first one," he admitted. "It just didn't seem like an important difference at the time. Neal, if I had had any idea…"

"I know, Peter. I didn't see it as important at the time either."

"Wait, the release is tied to this _specific_ fund?" Jones asked.

Peter nodded. "And now it's being eliminated."

"A rather last minute change too," Neal added.

"It was messengered to Hughes late the night before the budget meeting," Peter confirmed. "No explanation. And no one is answering our calls!" He slammed his hand on the table in frustration.

"There's a kill switch in place."

"A what?"

"There's a tracker in the Bureau's computer system that pops up a flag when my name is queried," Neal explained. "Mozzie called it a kill switch. If the inquiry comes from within this office, you just get silence. If it's somewhere else, they get a call telling them not to pursue the inquiry."

"And how long have you known this?" Peter asked.

"A few days."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"Peter, you wouldn't even admit there was a problem."

"Wait, there's a bigger question here," Diana cut in. "Who's getting this flag?"

"Mozzie hasn't been able to track that down yet," Neal admitted.

Jones let out a low whistle. "Man, someone with enough clout to shut down inquiries on an official system like that? And hide his tracks?"

Peter was watching Neal closely. "You think it's the man behind Larrsen?"

Neal shrugged. "I think it's a good possibility. We know that's someone with enough power to get people assigned to OPR, among other things, is pulling the strings. And this kind of set up takes a lot of clout."

"Well, all right," Diana said. "Neal's agreement is tied to this fund. Can't we just set up a new agreement in January?"

Again, Peter shook his head. "Not according to Legal. I had one of the lawyers review the agreement, and she can't find a way around it."

"Well, so what happens on January 1st then?" Jones asked.

"Neal's probation is revoked," Peter said softly.

"I go back to prison," Neal added.

"That's just so wrong," Diana said. "I mean, granted, Neal has done some things that I would gladly have put his ass in jail for at the time. But when you look at what he's done overall, and especially these last few months…" She paused, shaking her head. "I just don't see how they can justify this."

"I don't think whoever's behind this cares about case closure rates," Peter said.

"No, my 'ass in jail' seems to be the goal," Neal agreed.

"So what's the bottom line?" Jones was studying a calendar. "How much longer on the escape sentence?"

"Twenty one months." Peter's reply was quick and sure.

"So seventeen months by January." Jones was shaking his head. "Damn, that's a chunk of time."

"It's not just the seventeen months," Neal said quietly. "I mean, I did almost four years the first time. But I wasn't known as a FBI informant then."

"You'd be in danger from Day One," Peter said.

"It might come down to whether I could arrange protection quickly enough," Neal agreed. "And protection for a FBI informant… well, that might cost more than I can pay." There was a hitch in his normally fluid voice as he finished.

"Money?" Diana asked.

"Not money," Peter guessed sadly.

"No, not money," Neal confirmed, staring down at his hands on the table. "Money only goes so far inside. There are other forms of 'currency' in play."

"Oh, shit," Jones said, summing up the feeling for all of them. "When you were in before…"

"I arranged protection. And you can act shocked if you want, or disgusted, or whatever. But I pretty much set the terms and really, it wasn't that bad. I mean, it's just sex. And it kept me safe from the gang stuff. Protecting a known FBI informer though…"

"I can request administrative segregation," Peter said. "Given your background, it has to be approved."

Neal finally looked up, meeting Peter's eyes. "Do you know what you're saying, Peter? That means locked up for twenty three hours a day, with no one – _no one_ - there. It would kill me a little every day. Honestly, a quick shiv in the back would be more humane."

"Neal…"

"Promise me, Peter. Promise you won't request ad seg."

The pain in Neal's eyes was too much to stand up to, and Peter gave in, nodding. "I won't."

"Well, I'm not just accepting that prison is inevitable," Diana said. "We still have time to figure something out."

"Are you thinking about running?" Jones asked quietly.

Neal looked at the three of them and gave a half shrug. "Even assuming, hypothetically, that I was, it would be kind of silly to discuss it with three FBI agents."

Peter hesitated for just a moment, and then he reached for his badge, hiding it under the folders in front of him. Taking a cue from their boss, Diana and Jones quickly followed suit. "No badges," he said. "Nothing you say the next few minutes goes beyond this room."

"OK, here's the deal," Neal started slowly. "Everyone thinks that running sounds like an easy solution, but it's not. It's hard work. You always have to be on guard, always wondering who might be a danger to you. Who might have just seen your picture on one of those TV shows. And running means leaving everything, and everyone, behind." He paused, searching for the words he wanted. "It wasn't easy running before, when you were chasing me Peter. I mean, it was _easier,_ because Kate was a part of that life and would run with me. But now… Now, I'm kind of used to having you guys around. And June, and El. Mozzie. Running means I'd have to leave all of you behind. And what I do here. No one's more surprised than me, but I really like it. Maybe not the cold case mortgage frauds so much, but most of it. And you know, I was just realizing the other day, I've spent more time living at June's than any other one place since I was six years old – well, except for prison, that is. That's something else I'd lose." He stopped, taking a couple of deep breaths. "So, you asked if I was thinking about running. And the answer is yes, I'm thinking about it. But it's really not that easy to decide to do."

For a long moment, no one said anything. Finally, Diana spoke up. "So what do we do next?"

"I'll put together a list of what Hughes and I have tried," Peter said. "You can look at it and see if you have any other ideas. But don't actually try anything yourselves," he warned his junior agents. "Get it to me or Hughes, that way you have deniability."

"There's another question though," Neal said. "I can tell you, honestly, that I can continue to do the job, and not let this interfere. Well, the last week of December might be iffy, but until then anyway." He paused, looking at each of them in turn. "No decision I make will intentionally endanger any of you. But you need to think about it, all of this, and decide if _you_ can trust me to keep working with you. If not, January doesn't really matter."

"Well, I wouldn't necessarily trust you with my jewels, if I had any," Diana said.

"Or my girlfriend," Jones added.

"But I, for one, _would_ trust you to have my back when it counted," Peter said.

Jones and Diana nodded in agreement.

Peter stood up, retrieving his badge and gathering up his files. "All right, let's get back to work on this Wentworth case."

"I'd like to contact Dr. Hunt," Neal said. "She might have some insight on who's collecting this kind of thing, or if the pieces are especially significant."

"Give her a call," Peter agreed. "If she's available, we can drive up to Ithaca tomorrow."

"I will. Thanks."

Peter opened the door and walked out, and the others started to follow. But Neal stopped Jones at the door. "You have a girlfriend?"

"No, not at the moment," the agent admitted reluctantly. "But if I did, I wouldn't trust you with her."

Despite the dire discussion that had just taken place, all Neal could do was laugh.


	9. Pieces of Old

Peter glanced over to the passenger seat, where Neal had his face turned to the side window. The younger man had been sitting like that for a while now. The silence, and the lack of activity, just didn't seem like _Neal._ "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, fine."

"You're just being very quiet."

"Just enjoying the scenery," Neal said. He turned partway, a small smile on his face. "Your cases don't usually take us very far outside the city, Peter. I haven't seen open land and hills like this for a long time."

"Thought you were a city boy," Peter challenged. _Still, he could understand what Neal was saying. For his own part, he knew he needed to get out of the city now and then – __really__ needed it. And, of course, Neal couldn't..._

"I don't know that I would have ever wanted to live away from a city," Neal admitted. "At least, not for very long. I guess I'd always gravitate back there. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the beauty of nature. Even long for it at times. Especially when I can't have it."

"Neal…"

"Peter, please, spare me the lecture about how I made bad choices and have to pay the price. I've heard you before, I really have. It's just, I know there's a bigger world out there, and nothing you say can take away the memories I have up here." He tapped his head, and then turned back toward the window.

The weariness in the other man's voice was more concerning than the silence. "Are you getting any sleep?"

"Not much," Neal admitted. "You?"

"I've slept better."

Neal shifted in his seat, turning to look at Peter. "I meant what I said, Peter. I can do my job. But if you expect me to be 'on' all the time in the car too, you need to tell me."

"No, I don't expect that," Peter replied. "I'm just concerned about you."

"Really, Peter, I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind."

"We're going to figure this out, Neal."

"If anyone can, it's you, Peter. I mean that."

"I figured you'd say that to Mozzie."

"Moz might come up with the name," Neal admitted. "But if it's really internal, someone high up in the government, that's something you'll need to do."

"Don't you mean '_we'll'_ need to do?"

"I guess that depends on how fast something breaks."

_And there it was – that weight hanging over them. For a brief moment, Peter had an image in his mind of a Loony Tunes cartoon, with the huge barbell hanging over the coyote's head after the latest ACME invention went awry. And just like the road runner, he felt the urge to run far, far away from it._

"So how did the GED class go?"

"I signed up to take the tests in all the subjects over the next couple of weeks."

"Figure you'll pass?"

Neal rolled his eyes and smiled. "I didn't drop out because I couldn't do the work."

"Want to talk about why you did drop out?"

"Not really. Let's just say that, at the time, I didn't think the piece of paper was very important."

"And now?"

"You tell me." Neal looked over, and this time his smile was one of curiosity. "Julie didn't say much, just that you and she had discussed me working on my education."

"I don't know any details either," Peter admitted. "I asked her to look at your release agreement, see if there was any way to separate the release from the funding. Unfortunately, she hasn't had any luck with that. But she said she'd look into some other possibilities, and that working on your education couldn't hurt."

"Just a little strange," Neal mused. "I mean, back to high school basics after teaching at a university."

"Not exactly on legitimate credentials," Peter pointed out.

Neal shrugged. "Details. I still maintain that those students learned more than they would have with any other professor."

"Speaking of professors, tell me about this Dr. Hunt."

"I already told you. She's a PhD in archeology, Masters in anthropology. So she understands both the physical history and the societal implications. Ancient Egypt is one of her primary focus areas. She used to spend summers on digs all over the country."

"How did she sound on the phone? Happy to hear from you again?"

Neal shifted uneasily in his seat before answering. "I didn't actually talk to her."

"You said she agreed to meet."

"She did. Through her student teaching assistant."

"Is there a personal history here that I should know about?"

Neal was silent for a long moment before answering. "We were close."

"Close?"

"Involved."

"In other words, she was a mark."

"No!" Neal's denial was firm and immediate. "No, not a mark."

Peter was genuinely intrigued by this rare open moment, and he wanted to proceed carefully. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed," he said slowly. "Tell me about her."

Neal closed his eyes, leaning back against the headrest. "We met at a faculty event," he said, remembering. "It was arranged to highlight a new exhibit of the artifacts and research she had from her work in Egypt. She gave a presentation, and afterward she was standing in the exhibit area, talking to people. And I just remember thinking that I'd rarely heard anyone speak so passionately about something they were interested in."

"So you asked her out."

Neal opened his eyes and nodded, smiling. "Yeah, I did. And it was… amazing. I mean, there we were, the learned academic and the high school dropout. But we could talk about anything – and we did. Art, history, the likelihood of extraterrestrial life."

"That sounds more like Mozzie."

"Yeah, I guess it does," Neal agreed, laughing. "But at the time, it was a perfectly natural topic between Gayle and me."

"So what happened?"

"I meant what I said before, Peter. I went to Cornell to take information away, nothing else. Of course, I did lie a little to get there."

"A little?"

"It's all relative. I was going to stay for the first term, covering for a professor who was on leave, and then disappear. My timetable just got moved up a little."

"Missed a detail somewhere?" Peter guessed.

"Oh, my résumé was perfect," Neal countered. "I just didn't count on the dean of the art school I used showing up at Cornell for a conference."

"Yeah, I can see how that could be a problem," Peter deadpanned.

"No, you don't understand, Peter. This guy had not been out of the state of Georgia for thirteen years! And then, out of the blue, he comes to Ithaca, New York."

"Bad timing, yeah," Peter agreed. _Though actually, it was a little funny…_

"Right, bad timing," Neal said, the sarcasm heavy in his voice. "Anyway, I had to leave, kind of fast."

"And was Dr. Hunt hurt?"

"Probably," Neal admitted softly. "I didn't exactly have time to say goodbye."

Peter considered that for a moment before responding. "My combat vest is in the trunk," he offered. "If you think you might need it."

Neal grinned and shook his head. "As I recall, the ancient Egyptians were big on head shots and large rocks, so it probably wouldn't help."

"Don't forget the asps," Peter said. "Just ask Cleopatra."

Neal laughed. "Just for that, you get to walk in first."

Peter didn't reply, simply tightened his grip on the steering wheel. _Maybe he shouldn't have brought up asps. He really hated snakes…_

* * *

He pulled the car into a parking space near a building that looked for all the world like a castle, complete with turrets. "I feel like I should watch out for jousting knights or something," he said as they got out of the car.

Neal stood up, stretching. "It's a dormitory now," he said. "Though when I was here there were a couple of suits of armor in there. And you should see the dining hall – quite impressive."

"So where are we meeting Dr. Hunt?"

Neal pointed across the campus quad and started walking. "The history and archeology departments are over here."

They walked across the grassy quad, surrounded by years of ivy-covered history. "Can you feel it, Peter?" Neal asked as they neared one of the buildings.

"What?"

"The history! This was the first truly American university in the country. And the founders chartered the school to be open to anyone, regardless of gender, religion, or race. Do you know how rare that was in 1865?"

"I would imagine not very common."

"Not common at all." Neal walked up the stairs to one of the academic buildings and held the door open for Peter. Inside, he paused, looking at his watch. "She's probably still finishing up her undergrad class. I guess we can check."

Peter followed as Neal led the way upstairs and down a hallway, finally stopping by a set of double doors. Very carefully, so as not to make noise, Neal opened the doors and gestured for Peter to enter.

They walked into an auditorium classroom, and at a quick count he estimated there were probably about a hundred students gathered. Peter followed Neal into the back row, and they settled into a couple of empty seats.

There was a large screen at the front of the room, with a slide of the Great Pyramid projected on it. And in front of the screen, a woman was holding court. She had shoulder length auburn hair, and a trim figure, currently clad in khakis and a navy plaid blazer.

She clicked a tool in her hand and the photo on the screen changed to show some broken shards of pottery laid out on a cloth. "Now this is more likely what you find on a dig," she was saying. "Those complete pieces are pretty rare. But we can learn a lot from the fragments too." A bell rang in the background, and students began closing their notebooks and laptops. "All right, you have your assignment for the next class. And remember, there are undergraduate openings for the excavation team next summer. If you think you might be interested, make an appointment and we'll talk."

The auditorium started to empty as students walked out, alone and in groups. When almost everyone had left, Peter got up and started toward the front.

He stopped after a few steps, realizing that Neal hadn't moved. "Are you coming?"

Neal nodded and got slowly to his feet. "Yeah."

Peter studied his partner, allowing himself a small grin. "You're nervous!" _Now that was something one didn't often see in Neal Caffrey._

"A little," Neal admitted.

Peter looked back toward the front of the room, and found Dr. Hunt looking up at them. "Too late, I think she already knows you're here."

Neal followed the agent's glance, and nodded, clearing his throat. He straightened his shoulders, slipped out of the row of desks, and started down the stairs toward the lectern.

Peter followed a few steps behind – far enough back to be out of the line of fire, he hoped. But close enough to get to Neal quickly, should the need arise.

_Because as they got closer he could see the professor's green eyes, and they were sparkling with… what? Anger? Amusement?_

Hunt made the first move, stepping down off the dais to meet them. "Well, it's been a while, Nick. Oh, wait. I guess it's really Neal… Caffrey, was it?"

"Neal Caffrey, yeah." He stopped in front of her, obviously uncomfortable. "I hope you didn't have too much trouble when I left," he continued quietly.

"You mean after they found out it was all a lie – that _you_ were a lie?" She shrugged, shaking her head. "I was just the one who fell for you. I understand the Dean had a lot of questions to answer about how you got hired."

Neal nodded, biting his lip. "Would it help if I said I was sorry?"

"It would be a start."

"Then I am very, _very_ sorry."

She nodded, a sad smile crossing her face. "Damn, you're still looking good," she said, reaching out tentatively to brush an errant lock of hair off of his forehead.

Neal allowed himself a small smile too. "So are you," he said. "The Egyptian air must agree with you."

"I think it does," she agreed. She looked over his shoulder to where Peter was standing, and then back to Neal. "Your message said something about a robbery, and the FBI?"

Neal nodded and took a step to one side. "This is Special Agent Peter Burke, from the FBI office in New York. Peter, this is Gayle Hunt."

Peter stepped forward, holding out his ID. "Dr. Hunt. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us."

"Well, if there's something I can do to help, I'm glad to do so, Agent Burke. Can you tell me what this is about?"

"A few days ago a small museum in New York, the Wentworth Gallery, was broken into. The thieves left quite a bit of artwork and other exclusive items behind, but they took some ancient Egyptian artifacts. There was a similar theft in Pittsburgh a few weeks ago, again with Egyptian artifacts the only thing taken. Neal suggested that you might be able to give us some insight into the items that were taken, see if anything special strikes you about them."

"I assume you have photos?"

Peter tapped a folder under his arm. "Right here."

Hunt nodded and stepped back up onto the dais, gathering her materials into a portfolio. "We can go into the archeology lab," she suggested. "It might help to have some actual items for reference."

She started to pick up a briefcase, but Neal got there first. Hunt looked at him for a moment, then gave a small nod and walked toward the door at the far side of the dais. From there she led the way down a series of hallways, finally stopping in front of another door. She took a key ring from her pocket and selected the correct one from an assortment, and unlocked the door.

As Peter stepped into the room, he realized that he had had no idea what an archeology lab would look like. But if he _had_ given it some thought, this would have to be it. It was a large room, filled with display cases and tables crammed into every conceivable space. Pieces of this and that lay spread out on the tables. He couldn't have identified most of it if his life depended on it, but he knew for a certainty that all of it was old.

As Neal would probably say, he could feel the history in this room.

Hunt put the portfolio and her keys down on a table by the door and took her briefcase from Neal, adding it to the collection. "Was there a specific age of the stolen artifacts?"

"Mostly third century BC," Neal supplied.

That earned a raised eyebrow from Hunt and she turned, making her way between the maze of tables. "I brought some back from my most recent work," she said, pulling back a plastic sheet.

The two men followed, stopping next to the table.

To Peter, the items on the table just looked like a bunch of broken pieces of… something. But from the way Neal's eyes lit up, it was obvious his partner was seeing something very different.

Neal leaned low over the table, looking closely at everything. He finally held a hand out toward the artifacts. "May I?" he asked softly.

Hunt pointed toward a box of cotton gloves sitting on the end of the table and nodded her assent.

While Neal eagerly pulled on a pair of the gloves, Peter stepped up next to Hunt. "These are from the same time period?"

"Some of them at least, yes," she replied. "They're from a site where I've excavated artifacts from that time period before. I've only started to study and categorize these."

"I thought I'd read that the Egyptians were pretty tight on letting antiquities out of the country."

"They are, but as with most things, there are exceptions. I've worked there for years, provided them with a lot of research and pieces. Technically, these are on loan for research purposes. In actuality, Cairo very rarely asks for shards back." She paused, giving him a wry smile. "Now if the pieces were whole, that's an entirely different story."

"But you can tell enough from the fragments to make it worthwhile."

"It's just like a puzzle, Agent Burke. One piece alone doesn't tell you much, but put enough pieces together and a picture starts to appear. Put all the pieces together and you get the complete picture."

"So will this give you the complete picture?" Peter asked, pointing at the table.

Hunt laughed in response. "Oh, I don't know that we'll ever have all the pieces, and see that complete picture."

"But you'll keep trying."

"Oh, yes. How can we really know where we are, and where we're going as a species, if we don't know where we've been, and where we've come from?"

He had no answer for that, so Peter turned his attention to Neal. The younger man had picked up one of the pieces and was delicately turning it over, studying it with a satisfied smile. "So tell me about when Neal was here before."

"Ah, well, he was 'Nick' back then," Hunt began. "He caused quite a stir when he came to campus."

"Neal has a way of doing that wherever he goes."

Hunt smiled. "I can believe that. But here, everyone was excited about the handsome young art history professor. You see, the professor who took a sabbatical, and whose spot Nick – _Neal_ - took was generally viewed as an old codger who hadn't been young since somewhere around the founding of the school."

"Too bad it was all a lie," Peter observed.

"Ah, but that's just it. It wasn't all a lie," Hunt replied. "When I got the message yesterday, I was curious, so I looked a few things up. It seems that the undergrad class on art history that _Neal_ taught scored the highest on their final exam of any group in the last twelve years."

"He told me the students learned a lot from him. I thought he was just pulling my leg."

"No, it's true. I don't have any idea where he really learned what he knows, but his knowledge of art was quite impressive. I sat in on some of the classes he did, and the passion he showed for the topic was just infectious."

Peter grinned, earning a confused look from the professor. "It's just interesting that you use the word 'passion' to describe Neal. He said the same thing about you – that he was drawn to you because of your passion for the work you do."

Hunt smiled, and Peter thought he saw a bit of a blush color her cheeks. "Oh, there was quite a bit of passion involved between us," she said softly. "Despite everything, those few months were an incredible time for me. And every man I've dated since, I still compare them to Nick – excuse me, to Neal. And every one of them has come up lacking."

Peter found he had no reply to that revelation. He just watched as she stepped away, walking over next to where Neal was still looking at the pieces of history. "What do you think?"

He pointed at the pottery shard he had just put back on the table. "The etchings here seem to match what was on the pieces that were stolen."

"It's interesting that your thieves targeted artifacts from this time period," Hunt said. "It's rather specialized and, given the time involved, there aren't that many complete pieces from the era. Most people like to collect and display a complete vase, not bits and pieces."

"Most of what was taken consisted of fragments," Peter confirmed, holding out the file.

Hunt took it, paging through the photos. "I can probably tell you a little about some of these pieces," she confirmed. She paused, glancing at the clock. "Did you eat on your way up from the city?"

Neal shook his head. "No, we didn't."

"Well, I'm willing to forego the turkey sandwich in my office in favor of the cafeteria," Hunt said. "I'm doing a public lecture later this afternoon on the most recent dig I worked on this summer, and I feel the need for sustenance."

"Sounds good," Peter agreed. _Food might wake him up a little too. Even better, he'd bet the cafeteria had coffee…_

Hunt picked up a plastic case and handed it to Neal. "Bring the piece with the etchings," she suggested. "Maybe it will help."

* * *

Lunch with the professor provided some potential avenues to investigate. The community of serious collectors of ancient Egyptian antiquities turned out to be relatively small. Well, it was still a sizeable list, Peter knew, but compared to an international list of, say, Harry Potter fans, it was downright tiny.

Gayle Hunt had been able to provide names of people who regularly corresponded with her about artifacts, as well as attendance lists from some lectures she had given. She had also provided a good deal of background on the time period and the importance of the stolen pieces.

Neal seemed to have been following the history part a lot easier than Peter had, but that was fine. If anyone was going to have to make an undercover meeting, it would most likely be Neal anyway. And he had also been entrusted with a few pieces from Dr. Hunt's collection, should they prove useful in flushing out the thieves.

All in all, a successful trip to Ithaca, Peter figured. The written lists of names had been faxed back to the office, with instructions given to Diana and Jones to start running background checks. _If the two agents could even get all of the names input into the search program, it would give Peter a good head start the next morning. And maybe, with an incentive or two, he could get one or both of them to come in on Saturday with him…_

Peter looked at his watch as he headed for the car. It was nearly 3:00. Figure a four hour drive back to the city, maybe more depending on the traffic…

He looked back, noticing that Neal had lagged behind. "Are you coming?"

Neal picked up his pace just a little as he made his way to where Peter was waiting – impatiently. "Were you planning to walk back to the city?"

"Does that mean you'd let me stay behind?" Neal asked.

"No," Peter said quickly. "Why… Oh, you want to stay for the lecture."

Neal's expression brightened slightly. "Could we?"

"This wasn't a pleasure trip, Neal."

"I know that, Peter. But you already sent the names to the office. And it would be at least 7:00 before we got back to the city anyway."

"It'll be even later if we stay for the lecture."

"Were you planning to still work tonight?"

"No," Peter admitted. _Maybe it was time for a deal._ "If we stay, you come in to the office tomorrow, no arguments."

"Absolutely! With a smile, and bearing coffee."

"I'm going to hold you to that," Peter promised. "All right, where's the lecture?"

"This way," Neal said pointing and starting off.

_And Peter found himself nearly running to keep up…_

* * *

Peter yawned – again – and shook his head trying to wake himself up. It seemed to be taking forever for Neal to get the sample artifacts settled in the trunk.

"Maybe you'd like to ride back there with the cases?" he suggested.

Neal popped his head around the open trunk, scowling. "We have to be careful with these, Peter."

"I thought the plastic cases were to protect them."

"They are, but we still need to be careful."

"They've survived twenty three centuries," Peter muttered, yawning again.

Neal slammed the trunk closed. "All right, I'm done."

Another yawn, and Peter dropped the car keys as he started to get into the vehicle.

"Why don't you let me drive, Peter," Neal suggested, reaching down to pick up the keys.

"Oh, I don't think so," Peter said, snatching the keys back – but he couldn't help yawning yet again. "Besides, you said yourself you haven't been sleeping well either."

"Peter, the same lecture that seems to have put you to sleep has energized me," Neal said, holding out his hand. "I have enough to think about to make it home easily."

_He had been nodding off in the lecture. Hopefully Dr. Hunt hadn't noticed…_

"You really have a legitimate driver's license?"

Neal reached for his wallet and extracted the card. "Here."

Peter examined the license, holding it up at various angles.

"It's real, Peter."

"I don't know. I don't think anyone's real driver's license photo can look that good."

Neal grinned and took the card back, filing it in his wallet. "What can I say? They caught me on one of my three hundred sixty four _good_ days a year."

"Right." Peter sighed and handed over the keys. "All right, you can drive for a while. But I'll take over when we get close to the city. Traffic gets pretty tricky then…"

* * *

He came awake with a start, momentarily confused. _Oh, right, he'd let Neal drive. And now the car was stopped, so they must be at the outskirts…_

_Except that was his house._

Peter sat up straight in the seat, scowling at Neal. "I thought I told you I'd take over when we got close to the city."

Neal just shrugged. "You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn't want to wake you."

"Am I going to find any new dents on the car?"

"Really, Peter, I think that's something that you might have noticed."

Peter had to concede that point. "Probably." _And the truth was he did feel much better having had some sleep._

"Besides," Neal said. "I happen to be a very good driver." He pointed at the display screen on the dash. "Not a single proximity warning the whole way. Unlike _certain_ drivers who sometimes seem to get two or three a minute…"

"You can always ride in the trunk," Peter suggested. "Then you won't be able to see the alerts."

"Who would point them out to you?" Neal asked, his expression full of innocence.

Peter just shook his head slowly and opened the door, getting out and standing up slowly as he stretched. "No, the innocent thing doesn't work for you," he warned.

"No idea what you're talking about," Neal said, a little too brightly for Peter's taste, especially given the hour. He shut the door on the driver's side and pushed a button on the key fob, opening the trunk.

Peter moved to the back of the car as well, watching as Neal shifted a blanket, the FBI riot vest, and assorted car repair items which had been placed around the plastic cases. Finally, almost reverently, the younger man extracted the cases from the car. "Are they all right?"

Neal studied the cases for a moment before nodding. "As far as I can tell in this light."

Peter leaned closer to the trunk light, using it to illuminate his watch. _Nearly 11:30 – which made sense given the lecture and the reception…_

_And it meant Neal hadn't been speeding too badly._

"How come you didn't go to June's?"

"As tired as you were, I didn't want you driving. Elizabeth would kill me if something happened." Neal reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. "I can call for a cab."

"At this time, on a Friday night? It'll take forever to get here." Peter gestured toward the house. "Come on, you can crash in the guest room tonight. And since we're going in to the office tomorrow anyway, we can stop at your place so you can get a change of clothes in the morning."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. We're both tired. The last thing I need is you falling asleep in the back of a cab and winding up setting off the alarm on your tracker."

"I don't trust cabs enough to fall asleep…" Neal hesitated and then smiled broadly. "Hey, you trusted me enough to fall asleep…"

"Don't push it," Peter growled, but he turned away toward the house to hide the smile that he couldn't quite stop.

He held out his hand as he walked and Neal caught up, handing over Peter's keys. The motion detector light came on and illuminated the lock, which he quickly opened. He waited until Neal was inside too and then closed the door, re-engaging the locks.

He had no sooner turned away from the door when he heard the footsteps upstairs. "Peter?"

"Hey, honey. Sorry it's so late," he called. "Neal's here with me," he added. _Just in case she wasn't dressed for company…_

Feet appeared on the stairs, and then the rest of Elizabeth. She was fastening the belt on her robe.

Peter met her at the bottom step, taking her hand and kissing her. "Were you sleeping?"

"No, I was reading." She turned to their guest. "Hi, Neal."

"Elizabeth. I admit it's my fault your husband is this late."

"Hmmmm… did you hog tie him to get him to do something?"

"Not exactly hog tie, no."

"Then I'll blame both of you." She gave her husband a quick smile and another kiss. "So other than long, how was the trip to Ithaca."

"Helpful," Peter replied. He kicked his shoes off, breathing a sigh of relief for his feet. "We at least have some new leads to follow. I am going to have to work for a while tomorrow though, El."

"Well, I have that Meisner party tomorrow anyway. I'll probably be done around 4:00. Do you think you'll be free for dinner?"

"I'll kick him out in time," Neal promised.

Elizabeth rewarded him with a smile. "Thanks, Neal. He needs help like that now and then."

"I try, Elizabeth. I really do. But sometimes he just…"

Peter cleared his throat – loudly. "I am right here," he reminded them.

Elizabeth laughed and tugged his jacket lapel. "Are you going to be working so I should make some coffee?"

"It was kind of a long day," Peter admitted. "Though I guess I slept most of the way back."

"You… slept?" Elizabeth looked surprised. "I assume, since you're in one piece, that means you actually let Neal drive?"

"Neal drove," Peter admitted.

"Honey, I'm impressed. Neal always says you never let him drive."

Peter threw a glare in Neal's direction before answering. "Well, Neal never had a _legal_ license until recently. And I still have doubts about that now."

"Peter thinks the license must be fake because the photo is too good," Neal explained, rolling his eyes to indicate what he thought of that theory.

Elizabeth grinned and held out her hand. "Well, license photos are notoriously bad. Let's see." She took the card Neal handed over, one eyebrow raising in surprise. "Wow, that is a good photo."

"See," Peter said, sensing vindication. "I told you it was too good to be true."

"Mmmmm…. maybe." She turned back to Neal. "Was the photographer by any chance a young, good looking woman?"

"Well, now that you mention it…"

Elizabeth laughed and handed the license back to Neal. "There you go, Peter. Mystery solved. Neal just had a reason to look his best and smile."

Neal just grinned as he put the license away and Peter "hmmmmppphd" in mock annoyance. "I told you it was legitimate," he said. "You can check with Jones."

"Well, I'm glad Peter let you drive," Elizabeth said to Neal. "He hasn't been sleeping well." She ran a finger lightly along the younger man's temple. "From the looks of things, you aren't either."

Neal shrugged. "A few things on my mind."

"And no new information, I assume?"

Peter shook his head, wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Not yet."

She reached out her free arm, taking one of Neal's hands in hers. "There's still time, Neal. This is going to work out."

"Yeah, there's time," Neal agreed.

It didn't escape Peter's attention that Neal avoided the part about things working out. _But with nothing new to offer, there really wasn't much sense in opening that whole conversation up again right now._ "Since it was getting late, and we have to work tomorrow, I told Neal he could sleep here tonight."

"If it's a problem, I can still call a cab," Neal offered, speaking to Elizabeth.

"Don't be silly," she replied right away. "Of course it's no problem. The guest room is all made up."

"Thanks," Neal said softly, squeezing her fingers gently.

* * *

As promised, the guest room bed was made up and ready for… guests. And, as usual, there were some extra new toothbrushes in the guest bath in the hall, along with assorted travel size toiletries.

Neal cleaned up and then crossed the hall back to the guest room. While he had been in the bathroom someone had neatly laid out a pair of Peter's sweat pants and a t-shirt on the bed.

_Probably Elizabeth – Peter would have just tossed the clothing on the bed._

He changed, grinning when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. _Definitely not his style – but comfortable enough to sleep in for a night._

The guest bed welcomed him, and he settled into the comfort, closing his eyes. _He was so very tired…_

But a few thoughts intruded before he could give in to sleep. It had been good to see Gayle again, and to find out that while she had been hurt before, there might be a chance for forgiveness. _At least she had agreed to the meeting, which was a big step in and of itself. And overall, the meeting had been cordial…_

He also couldn't help but think about something he had said to Peter – that it was curious how the academic and the drop-out had managed to connect at Cornell. Even as sleep tried to claim him, the similarities to where he was now struck him. Here he was, an ex-con, welcomed into the home of a FBI agent and his wife.

Life really could be strange at times.

_And it was exactly moments like this that made even the idea of going on the run again so very painful…_

* * *

"Really? She was one of Neal's ex-girlfriends?"

"Yup. Apparently there was a lot of _passion_ involved on both sides."

Elizabeth tried to stifle a giggle as she climbed into bed. "Oh, I wish I'd met her. What's she like?"

"Well, she's a tenured professor at an Ivy League school, so really smart. And, yes, very passionate about what she does," Peter replied. He pulled a t-shirt on and got into bed. "She's also very nice."

"And were they still interested?"

"What, in each other?" Peter considered that for a moment. "You know Neal, he flirts with every woman he meets."

"Flirting isn't the same as interested."

"El, you know I'm no good at the emotions thing."

She laughed and turned toward him. "I know, and I love you anyway."

Peter reached over and turned out the bedside lamp, and then he wrapped his arms around his wife. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"You bought me Italian food."

"Is that all it took?"

"Well, no," she admitted, her smile evident in her voice. "But I'm not going to remind you of the other part with a guest in the house."

Peter groaned, and the groan turned into a soft laugh. "Love you, El," he whispered, burying his head against her shoulder.

"Love you too, Peter."


	10. Other Pieces

**_A/N: Thanks for the reviews and the story alerts! Everything is queued up and ready to post when my beta is done._**

**_

* * *

_**

Peter held one of the plastic containers, studying the fragment of pottery inside. He appreciated that it was old, sure, and Dr. Hunt's assertion that they needed to study the past in order to understand the present also made sense.

He just didn't understand why someone would want to go through all the trouble of breaking into multiple galleries to steal something like this.

"Got the history of the world figured out?"

Peter looked over toward the speaker as Neal came out of the bathroom, buttoning his shirt. "Maybe that will be my retirement project," he replied. "I have quite enough present day intrigue on my mind for right now." He poured another cup of coffee and pushed it toward the younger man. "June sent this up while you were in the shower."

Neal smiled and took the cup. "She does take good care of me."

Peter raised his cup in a toast. "And fortunately includes your visitors as well."

Neal flipped a chair around and straddled it. "So what's the plan today?"

"Well, Jones and Diana should have been able to get all of the background checks started yesterday with the lists I sent them. We dig in and see if something doesn't add up."

Neal picked up the plastic case Peter had been looking at. "A lot of trouble over something so small."

"But, as Dr. Hunt would say, something very significant."

Neal's smile softened at mention of the professor's name. "Yeah, she would."

"You really fell hard, huh?"

"Pretty hard, yeah."

"And after you left?"

Neal shrugged and bought an extra moment of thought by sipping his coffee. "Like I said yesterday, I had to leave kind of fast. I drove to Buffalo and caught the first flight, which happened to be to Miami. From there I found the first international flight and wound up in Amsterdam."

"Never looked back?"

"Another drawback to running," Neal said softly. "You can't look back, because there are too many things in front of you that can trip you up."

"So, Amsterdam?"

"I made my way through Belgium, Germany, Spain. Finally wound up in France – in Paris." Neal paused, and there was a slight tremor in his hand when he set his cup down. "That's where I met Kate. We bummed around Europe for a bit and finally made our way back to the States. A few months later, you were on my tail, and you know the rest."

"Hardly." _The more he thought he knew about Neal Caffrey, the more he realized he had yet to discover._

"Well, enough." He offered the grin that Peter had come to know meant that the moment of openness had been closed.

Peter drained his cup and stood up. "Well, let's get to it. Ready to go?"

"Shoes and socks," Neal said. He finished his own coffee and went over to the bed. "I have a good feeling about this, Peter. I think Gayle gave us some good information."

"We pretty much exhausted the other leads we had, so any new information is helpful." Peter watched for a moment as Neal maneuvered a sock under his tracking anklet. _How easy it was to take everyday things for granted, like just being able to pull on a sock._ "Speaking of the good doctor, what did you slip her at the reception last night?"

"What?"

"I saw you slip something into her hand when you were saying goodbye."

"Oh, just my card."

"What, you had FBI consultant cards made up?" _He hoped they didn't promise too much…_

Neal grinned, pulled on his second shoe and stood up. "No, just a personal card." He picked his wallet up from the counter and extracted a card, handing it to the agent.

_Neal Caffrey_

_917-555-4865_

"I thought it would at least say 'Forgeries 'R Us' or something," Peter quipped. _Just a name and phone number seemed so… plain. Especially for Neal._

"Nope. What's there is all I need."

"Think she'll call?"

Neal was filling a thermos, and for a moment he didn't answer. When he did, his voice was very quiet. "I don't know."

* * *

The Federal building on a weekend bore little resemblance to what the place was like on a typical weekday. Although it was true that crime didn't recognize the difference between the days, most of the Bureau did. In general, it was the local law enforcement officers who were called to emergency scenes; if jurisdiction allowed, the Bureau's agents went in later. Departments had on-call lists for just such occurrences.

There apparently were not a lot of agents actually called in that morning. As Peter pulled in to the parking ramp, he was able to park practically next to the alcove containing the elevator. And that led to another bonus about weekends – very little wait for a car, and express service all the way up to the 21st floor.

The bullpen area was empty when they walked in. In fact, the only other sign of life seemed to be in Hughes' office, Peter noted. _And what would bring the New York SAC in on a Saturday?_

They climbed the stairs to the second level and Peter led the way into his office. "I guess they were busy yesterday without us," he said, gesturing toward a tall stack of files on his desk. There was a computer disk on the top, and a note in Diana's writing suggesting they start there.

"Looks like… fun," Neal said.

"Hey, no complaining, remember?"

"That wasn't a complaint, just an observation."

Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow but let the matter drop. "Let's set up in the conference room," he suggested. "We can spread everything out." He picked up the stack of files and followed Neal to the next room.

Neal had the cases containing the Egyptian pieces – as well as the thermos with the precious black liquid – and he set them down on the long table. "I'll get a couple of cups," he offered, heading for the door.

Peter set his load down and put the disk to one side for the moment, looking at the files. Someone had carefully labeled each one. _They had some good clerks here – he wondered how late one of them had stayed to finish all of this._

He had the lists from Dr. Hunt folded in his jeans pocket and he pulled them out, flattening the paper on the table. _Might as well get them sorted by group…_

* * *

"You're sure? Mike, I really need this information. Yes, I understand you need to be careful. I guess we all do. But anything you can do… Right, thanks, Mike. Give Lisa my best."

Hughes hung up the phone and leaned his head against his hands, elbows on the desk. This was definitely _not_ the way he had planned to spend his Saturday. But after so many dead ends trying to go through official channels, he'd decided to try some unofficial entreaties. And one advantage of being the SAC was access to home phone numbers.

Unfortunately, he was getting nowhere just as fast with the unofficial calls as he had with the official ones.

He sighed and got to his feet, snagging his empty coffee cup. He'd run out of coffee in his office, so it was time for a trip to the break area.

He stopped just before he got to the steps, his attention drawn to the conference room.

The two men sat at the table, heads close together, watching something on a laptop. Their attention on the screen was complete, and they gave no indication of even seeing him. And he stood still, just watching.

An odder couple was harder to imagine – a top notch FBI agent and the convict he had pursued doggedly for years and finally put away. And indeed, when the proposal had first come up, Hughes had had a very hard time imagining that the pairing could come to any good. How could it, when the two men were so diametrically different?

Except it had worked – better than anyone could have predicted. And now it seemed so natural to refer to _Burke and Caffrey_ as a team.

_Like Batman and Robin. The Green Hornet and Kato. Starsky and Hutch. Cagney and Lacey. Two partners, different and yet linked as a team._

_Well, Burke and Caffrey had them all beat as far as he was concerned._

The elevator dinged its arrival and he looked toward the doors, not at all surprised to see Jones and Barrigan entering the office. _Peter surrounded himself with good people._

He nodded a greeting as they came up the stairs.

"We brought donuts," Barrigan said, holding up a bag.

"And coffee," Jones added, holding up the large thermos he carried and nodding toward the empty cup in the SAC's hand.

Hughes smiled and nodded. "Maybe I'll join you for a while."

* * *

Peter looked up as the three people entered the conference room. He thought maybe he should be surprised to see Jones and Diana – but then again, not really. "You didn't have to come in on a Saturday," he said, addressing the junior agents.

Jones just shrugged. "All those names you sent, we figured you'd be in. And maybe you could use some help."

"And sugar," Diana added, setting the bag on the table. "Donuts."

Neal's attention was piqued. "Mario's?"

"Of course."

He grinned and opened the bag, extracting a fresh pastry.

Jones poured coffee as Hughes accepted the offer of a donut. "Anything promising?" the SAC asked.

"Amazing the variety of people who are interested in ancient Egyptian artifacts," Peter replied.

Neal selected a folder and slid it across the table. "This guy was at Dr. Hunt's lecture last night. Jeffrey Wallace. He's a day trader for a firm in Pittsburgh."

"That's where the other theft was," Hughes said, opening the folder.

"Right," Peter confirmed. "And the firm has offices here in New York too."

"Anything to link him to the museums?"

"Not yet," Peter admitted. "But it's a connection worth checking out."

"Peter doesn't much like coincidences," Neal added.

"I don't either," Hughes said slowly. "Got a plan yet?"

"No, not really. Neal just recognized the guy a couple of minutes before you came in. There's nothing obvious in the file."

"So maybe we need to look for something not so obvious," Jones said.

"Yeah, we'll need a deeper background," Peter agreed. "Financials, whatever we can find."

"I'm on it." Jones unslung the computer bag from his shoulder, pulling out his laptop.

"We still have a lot of files to go through," Peter said, pointing at an untouched pile.

"Well, you have another set of eyes now," Diana said. She reached over and grabbed the top file.

"Anything you need from me?" Hughes asked.

Peter shook his head. "Not yet. We're just scratching the surface."

Hughes nodded and stood up, coffee and donut in hand. "Well, let me know if there is something. I'll be here for a while."

"Anything new on your end?" Peter asked.

"No, not yet. But I have more calls to make."

They watched as the older man left the conference room, heading back toward his office. After a moment, he turned to his team. "Let's get to work."

* * *

"All right, let's call it a day."

Peter looked up from his file, shaking his head. "Oh, no. Neal, you do not get to decide to call it a day."

"Yes I do, Peter. I promised Elizabeth you'd be home by 4:00. Look at the time."

"We can work a little longer," Peter mumbled, scowling at the clock. _How had it gotten that late?_

"Nope." Neal pulled the agent's chair away from the table, pointing him toward the door. "Your wife scares me."

"Can my wife send you back to prison?"

"Maybe not. But why would you want to bother with all the paperwork when someone else is so anxious to do it for you in a few months?"

The silence in the room hung heavy for a long moment. "I'm sorry," Peter finally said softly. "That was a stupid attempt at a joke." _Mental note – no more joking about prison…_

"Well, I think Neal's right," Diana said. She closed the file in front of her and clicked the projector off. "It's time to call it a day."

"We have some leads," Jones agreed. "But tracking some of them down on a weekend would be kind of tough. Monday will be better, when people are back at work and we can find them."

Grudgingly, Peter nodded. "All right. You guys win." He stood up and closed the file he had been working on. "Any plans for tonight?"

"Yeah, there's a new piano and wine bar near me," Diana said. "Christie and I were going to check it out. They're supposed to have an open mic night tonight."

"Oh, I love open mic," Jones said, quite enthused. "Where is this place?"

Diana grabbed her blazer and pulled a business card out of the pocket, handing it over. Then she held out a second card. "Neal?"

He shrugged and shook his head slowly. "Your place is outside my radius, so the bar probably is too."

Peter sighed and made a decision. "If you're willing to take responsibility, I won't call the marshals and put the tracking back on," he said, addressing Diana.

"I don't really need babysitting," Neal grumbled.

"Maybe, maybe not," Peter said before continuing, quite seriously. "But like you said, someone is trying hard to put you back inside. Do you really want to give him more ammunition?"

"Well, no," Neal admitted.

"Look, go, have a good time," Peter said, his tone lighter again. "Just stay with Jones and Diana. All right? That way if something does happen – like, say, an art heist – you're covered."

"Come on," Jones encouraged. "You can ride with me. We'll stop at your place so you can change, and then my place so I can get my party duds on."

Neal smirked. "Party duds?"

"Oh, yeah," Jones replied, grinning.

"Great. Then you can meet Christie and me at my place," Diana said. "We'll have dinner and check this place out."

"Are you and Christie going to wear your 'party duds' too?" Neal asked.

Diana just laughed. "I guess you'll have to come and find out."

Neal held up his hands in surrender. "I give up," he said, grinning. "It sounds like fun."

* * *

Neal wandered around the living room in Jones' apartment, studying the space – studying the man. He'd never been there before, and there had always been a certain curiosity on his part.

The apartment didn't disappoint.

It was… sturdy, for lack of a better word, kind of like Jones himself. There was nothing overtly flashy, and yet, if you looked, there were stylish touches. The couch was functional – the pillows in a bright pattern with African masks in the center. The color added just the right amount of contrast.

The entertainment center was interesting too. Jones had quite the stereo system – speakers all around, placed strategically to fill the room with sound. Folding doors hid a nice sixty inch flat screen television. _Okay, so he hadn't been able to resist looking…_

And the music selection…

He'd heard Jones talk about jazz from time to time, but the collection of CDs was outstanding. There was Dixieland, swing, jazz fusion. _Even some big band!_ There were ragtime standards from Joplin, Krell, and Turpin. All the top names were represented - Count Basie, Cab Calloway, Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Fletcher Henderson, Earl Hines, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw. Lesser known artists graced the shelves as well.

_Some of them were even still on vinyl!_

Neal was flipping carefully through the albums when Jones came out of the bedroom.

"See anything you like?"

"It's quite a collection," Neal said, carefully setting the albums back in their original position. He turned around, and smiled. Jones had opted for party duds consisting of khakis, a striped shirt, open at the neck, and a navy blazer.

Jones returned the smile, holding out his hands. "What, you don't like it?"

"No, it's fine."

Jones walked up, tugging the lapel of Neal's jacket. "But not quite Caffrey style?"

Neal had opted for a navy suit with a light blue silk shirt – open at the collar. "I'm one of a kind," he replied, grinning.

"And the world is a safer place," Jones threw back. "Ready?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

Jones stopped by the door and opened the closet door, pulling something out. A moment later he closed the closet and turned around, settling something on his head.

"Seriously? A beret?"

"Hey, it's _jazzy_! Get it?"

"Oh yeah, I got it."

"It's usually a hit with the ladies."

"Still looking for a girlfriend, huh?"

"Hey, maybe we'll both get lucky!"

_And that brought to mind memories of the day before, seeing Gayle again, remembering what he had had to run away from then…_

"Yeah, maybe we will."

* * *

He'd only been to Diana's apartment once, tagging along when Peter had dropped something off. But it was pretty much as he remembered it. Clean in a design sense, feminine without an overload of frills.

That pretty much described the two women as well. There wasn't a frill or a bit of lace anywhere on them, but no one could have argued the femininity. Christie's outfit was a bit more conservative, the skirt falling only a few inches above her knees. The dress itself was mostly red, with a bold geometric pattern in blue and black.

And Diana…

Neal leaned close, his voice low. "Isn't that the dress you wore when…"

"Can it," she whispered back.

"But we had such a pleasant night in the hotel…"

"Are we ready to go?" Diana asked, her voice a little louder than necessary in the small space.

Neal just grinned and held the door.

* * *

Dinner passed pleasantly at a trendy Asian fusion restaurant that Christie recommended. They even managed to mostly talk about non-FBI related topics.

And the piano bar…

Neal knew he was in love from the moment he walked in. A pair of baby grand pianos flanked the small stage at the far end. Tables and booths populated the room, strategically placed for a view of the stage. And the wine list…

"Mmmmm, good choice," Christie said, taking a sip of the crisp white pinot noir Neal had recommended.

Diana nodded in agreement. "Is it something a normal person can afford?"

Neal shrugged. "Price is relative. This one is a good value for the money."

"That's why I'll stick with beer," Jones declared, raising his glass.

"Does it keep your vocal cords in shape?" Neal asked. _Jones had already impressed them with a rendition of Fly Me to the Moon._

"Secret of my success," Jones confirmed. "But I might have to kill you now that you've discovered it."

"Hey, I bought the beer!" Neal protested.

"Yeah, all right, I guess I'll let it slide then," Jones agreed.

"So what are you singing next?" Christie asked.

"Me?" Jones shook his head. "No, it's someone else's turn."

"Please, someone besides the guy up there now," Diana pleaded.

"Yeah, he is a little off key," Neal agreed, grimacing.

Jones scoffed. "A little?"

Neal leaned forward, motioning to Jones. When the agent leaned in as well, Neal whispered something to him.

Jones smiled broadly and nodded. "Yeah, I know it."

The current singer finished to a smattering of applause. _Probably applauding because he was leaving the stage,_ Neal thought as he got to his feet. Leaving a surprised Diana and Christie at the table he and Jones made their way to the front. While Jones stepped up to the microphone on stage, Neal went to the piano player and leaned in, speaking softly. A moment later the woman slid off the bench and stepped away, and Neal took her place.

He took a moment with the instrument, running a few quick scales. And then he looked up, nodding at Jones. The agent nodded back, and Neal set his fingers, then started to play.

The room was filled with the sounds of _Lazybones_, just as Johnny Mercer and Hoagy Carmichael would have imagined it.

When they finished, the applause was genuine and sustained.


	11. The Puzzle

"I think I need to go to Pittsburgh."

Hughes picked up the file Peter had handed him, opening the cover. "We do have people there," he said.

"I know," Peter agreed. "But there are some things we just can't get from photos and e-mails."

"So give me the short version."

"This Wallace guy has some interesting financial transactions recently. He also has some ties to people in the security system industry."

"Both places."

"Both cities. The police file from Pittsburgh doesn't have all of the company and employee details, but there's reason to believe Wallace might be connected."

"Any lead on the actual pieces?"

"Not yet. But we have a… _resource_ looking for some street help there." _And for all of the times Mozzie had come through with information, despite his peculiarities and paranoia, Peter wasn't betting against him this time._

"The Pittsburgh office might have some contacts."

"Definitely, and I'd like to use them. But this didn't become a Bureau case until the second theft, when it crossed state lines. No one in Pittsburgh is up to speed."

"All right," Hughes agreed. "The SAC there owes me a favor or two. I'll call ahead and get the process started for you. Just try not to smash their turf too badly."

"I'll tread lightly," Peter promised. "But there is one more thing."

"Which is?"

"I want to take Caffrey with me."

Hughes leaned back in his chair and sighed. "That opens a whole new can of worms. The field office there might not be happy having a convicted felon brought into their house."

"I know, but I think it's important. Reese, Neal is the one who got us this lead through Dr. Hunt. And if we need to set up a meet to try and get the stolen artifacts, he's the one most knowledgeable about them. If Wallace is there, and involved, we have some leverage to draw him out. But if Neal is here, we at best lose time, and at worst might lose the chance to nail this guy."

"All right, I'll try to smooth the way. Call the marshals service and see what it takes to get Caffrey out of state."

"Already did. The paperwork is on the way over."

The older man raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Taking a bit for granted, aren't you?"

"Only that you'd make the right decision for this case."

Hughes laughed. "Flattery will win you some points this time. Just keep me informed. And don't lose Caffrey somewhere along the way. That kind of headache I really do not need."

"Me neither," Peter replied. "I'll keep track of him." He got to his feet and left the office, heading for the floor.

In the bullpen, Jones and Diana were gathered near Neal's desk, watching as he sketched something.

"Art class time, children?" Peter asked as he walked up.

"Neal's rendition of what these fragments would look like as a whole piece," Diana explained.

Peter looked in, studying the drawing. "Impressive," he said, actually meaning it. The bits and pieces came together into a stately pottery piece. _Just like the puzzle Dr. Hunt had talked about._

"Just think, if they could find some whole pieces like this," Neal mused.

"Then there would probably be even more people trying to steal them," Peter said. "Anyway, wrap up what you're doing. I'm driving you home."

"Home?" Neal asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, you need to pack a bag. You and I are going to Pittsburgh." Neal actually looked surprised, and Peter worked hard to suppress a grin. _He just loved it when he could actually shock Neal with something._

"I actually get to go out of state?"

"The marshals are sending over the paperwork, and Hughes approved it," Peter replied. "Just don't make me sorry about this."

"No, you won't be sorry!"

Peter turned to the other two agents. "You know what to follow up on here?"

"I have the other financial information coming in," Jones said.

"And I'm working on the warrant for Wallace's New York office," Diana added.

"All right, then let's do this," Peter said. "I feel like we're finally getting close."

* * *

"Will you please _stop_ that!"

Neal stopped drumming his fingers on the arm of the seat and looked up. "Sorry."

They were sitting in the lounge area at the gate at LaGuardia, waiting for the flight to Pittsburgh to be called. As usual, the flight was delayed. And Neal had been alternately pacing, tapping his foot, drumming his fingers…

"Want to tell me what the problem is?"

"Maybe I'm just excited about getting out of New York."

"No, when you're excited, you talk my ear off. I know it's been a while, but you're acting like you've never been on a plane before."

Neal turned to look out the window, his fingers starting to move – until he caught himself at the last minute and pulled his hand back.

"Look, I thought you'd want to go," Peter said. "If you don't…"

"It's not that," Neal said quietly, staring at his feet. "It's just…" He hesitated, drawing in a shaky breath. "You might remember what happened the last time I was supposed to get on a plane," he finished, his voice barely a whisper.

_Oh, shit_. Peter reached a comforting hand over to the younger man's shoulder. "Neal, I didn't even think about that."

"When you said Pittsburgh, I just thought you meant driving at first."

"I guess I thought about nearly four hundred miles in a car with you…"

"And figured I'd talk your ear off the whole way?"

Peter shrugged, a small smile crossing his face. "Something like that."

Neal managed to return the smile. "I'll be all right, Peter. Really. Once I actually get on the plane and we take off. I mean, I used to do this all the time."

"Did it a lot when I was trying to find you."

"Apparently not often enough."

"But look what you would have missed if I hadn't caught you."

"Sure, four years in a cell, orange jumpsuits – orange is _so_ not my color, Peter. Bad food, instant coffee."

"I was thinking more about the last couple of years," Peter said, a hint of humor in his voice.

"I was getting there. I've been shot at, tasered, kidnapped, beaten up…"

"So, nothing but regrets?"

Neal grinned, his hands finally relaxing. "I guess there have been a few good things."

"I let you eat my breakfast cereal."

"And Satchmo likes me."

"He's a dog. He likes anyone who scratches his ears."

"So if I scratch _your_ ears…"

"Don't even think about it."

Neal laughed and leaned back in the chair. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Any time. You sure you'll be all right with this?"

"Well, if I'm not, I'll try to not puke on you."

"That does not fill me with confidence, Caffrey." Neal just grinned, so Peter continued. "Anyway, this will be an adventure."

"It's been great so far. Loved getting groped by the TSA guy."

"That was a security pat down."

"Right. He had his hands all over me, Peter."

"Maybe you looked suspicious."

"You had all the paperwork from the marshals," Neal argued. "And I was with you!"

"Maybe _I_ thought you looked suspicious."

Neal rolled his eyes and started in on a story about a flight in Europe, and the flight attendant who had been so… attentive. Peter was only half listening, his own thoughts intruding. _He really hadn't thought about what the idea of flying might mean to Neal right now. It was something that probably should have occurred to him. El would have thought of it, if he'd had time to talk to her about it. At least his partner seemed a little more relaxed now, and if they could just get in the air…_

"What? Wait – the Mile High club?"

* * *

Much to Peter's relief, the flight to Pittsburgh went off without a major hitch. _Well, as long as you ignored the fact that the flight departed two hours late, which seemed to be pretty par for the course for New York airports. They probably could have driven…_

As predicted, Neal had relaxed once they were actually off the ground. _The fact that a couple of flight attendants had stopped by frequently to bask in the flirting probably didn't hurt._ With the aisle seat, Neal had even gallantly helped load luggage into the overhead bins for a family with several small children, and an elderly couple who said they were traveling to meet their first great-grandchild.

Once they landed, the car rental process had been reasonably painless. _Though really, how many times should he have to say he was declining the insurance…_

The rental navigation system was different than what he was used to, so he even let Neal play around with it. "Try to find the Wexler Museum," Peter said, pointing at the unit.

"Not the hotel?"

"The Wexler is having an open house tonight. We might be able to make it for a little bit, do a little unofficial looking around before it becomes official tomorrow."

"What's the open house for?"

"A visiting exhibit of relics from the Acropolis."

"Ah, Greece. You're hoping maybe our Egyptian fan likes other Mediterranean history as well?"

"Well, that would make it easier," Peter admitted. "But probably hoping for too much. No, I was just thinking it would be nice to see the place without officially announcing the visit."

"Undercover, nice. They won't be on guard with their answers."

"They will be on guard around the artifacts, however," Peter warned.

"Well, if any go missing, it won't be me!" Neal objected. He smiled, holding up the GPS unit. "Got it," he said. "Here we go."

* * *

The open house was festive, but fairly standard for such an event. Peter even wondered if all of these museums managed to use the same caterer – same basic hors d'oeuvres, same uniform for the servers, same cheap champagne…

_Obviously, he'd been to too many of these types of events._

Neal, of course, was in his element – even if he had complained about going right to the museum without a chance to change. It was actually quite fascinating to watch, the way the younger man could mingle, become part of any conversation, pick up information.

_Within half an hour he'd found Peter and pointed out several weak points in the security for the Acropolis displays. Peter made a note to talk to the curators in the morning. You'd think they would have learned after the recent thefts…_

* * *

"Really, Peter, one room? Is that the FBI travel budget, or do you really think I'd run if I was next door?"

"I think I have to justify the travel expenses," Peter replied, tossing his bag down. "Hey, at least there are two beds. You could have been sleeping on the floor."

"That's got to be against the rules," Neal grumbled. He dropped his bag onto the bed near the window.

"What's the matter? Were you expecting one of your flight attendant friends to show up?"

"No, I was not expecting company. Just a little privacy."

"Cowboy up, Caffrey," Peter said, laughing.

"I really hate that phrase."

"I know."

Neal scowled at him. "Sometimes you have a real evil streak, Peter."

"Shocked?"

The scowl turned into a laugh. "Nope." Neal dug into his bag, laying out pajamas and pulling out his toothbrush. "So what's the plan for tomorrow?"

"We need to check in with the local Bureau office – courtesy call, since we're in their jurisdiction. Hughes asked them to get copies of the police reports, so hopefully that's done. Then back to the museum."

"I didn't see Wallace there tonight."

"No, I didn't either. Of course, we got there late."

"Or maybe he's only interested in Egypt."

"Maybe. We'll take a look at everything tomorrow, see what comes up."

"So what are we doing tonight?"

Peter grinned and reached for the television remote. "Monday Night Football," he announced, clicking the power button. "The Giants versus the Eagles, a classic. And I made sure the hotel got ESPN," he added, scanning the channels.

Neal sighed and dropped the toothbrush. "Maybe I'll just be downstairs in the bar."

"The game will be on there too."

"But there's alcohol down there, which will make it easier."

"Oh, good point!" Peter clicked the television off and shrugged out of his jacket, dropping it on the bed. "Nothing goes better with football than a good cold beer."

"Well, if you're going to the bar, maybe I could just stay…"

"And miss a classic game?" Peter pushed Neal toward the door. "Come on. You'll thank me for this later!"

* * *

The police report was brief, with few extras attached, and nothing beyond what he had already seen – about what Peter had expected to find. Entry had been achieved through a back fire exit that had been certified as locked and secured by the day guard when he went off duty at 6:00. The night guard made no mention of the door in his log entries. The room with the Egyptian artifacts had been physically checked at midnight, and again two hours later – when the theft had been discovered. The alarm system had been bypassed, though the report contained no details.

_Neal would probably have some ideas once they got to the Wexler – officially - this morning._

The agent assigned from the Pittsburgh FBI offices at least turned out to be pleasant and competent. Paula Clarkson was nearing retirement after a long career with the Bureau. Her desk was a hodgepodge of photos - children, grandchildren, pets – but her mind was clear of clutter. She had visited the Wexler after getting the call from Hughes and retrieved lists of security contractors and employees. She had preliminary reports waiting when Peter and Neal arrived.

Neal found the first link in a report he was reviewing – a contractor working for the security company that had installed a new system for the Wexler just a few weeks before the Egyptian display opened. The same man had worked as an independent contractor in New York.

And happened to be married to the half-sister of one Jeff Wallace.

An official visit to the museum led to back-stage access, and similar lapses in security to what they had seen at the Wentworth. It still wasn't enough to arrest Wallace, but they were getting closer.

A call from Neal to Gayle Hunt put the final pieces in play. She agreed to travel to Pittsburgh to take part in the grand re-opening of the Egyptian artifact display with 'new' pieces. Some of those pieces were the fragments she had already provided, and the name 'Dr. Gayle Hunt' on the announcement guaranteed the event an academic validity that would, hopefully, draw out the thief again.

Neal would create the other 'ancient artifacts' to fill in the displays. That required a visit to the local home and garden store for some terra cotta pottery – and a hammer to break it with. An art supply store provided the other tools needed. Clarkson managed to get a small conference room reserved for the next week, and it became a workroom.

And when Neal stepped back and let the agents see his work, Peter had to admit it was hard to tell the real artifacts from the forgeries until he picked up a piece and felt the difference in weight. From behind a glass case, no one would know the difference.

Everything was in place by Thursday and they flew back to New York for a few days. By Tuesday they were back in Pittsburgh, preparing for the Wednesday gala. This time Neal managed the waiting and the flight with no trepidation.

And he got his own hotel room.

The reception went off as planned, complete with Gayle's presentation. _And afterward Peter understood why Neal admired the passion she had for her work._

The best news of all was that Jeffrey Wallace showed up, and was _very_ interested in the displays. Neal encouraged the interest, posing as one of the exhibit curators.

Wallace's interest was shown again the next day when a representative of the museum's security company called to schedule an impromptu 'inspection' of the systems – which had been carefully restored to the pre-theft status.

The overnight surveillance Thursday night was a bust, as was Friday. And the surveillance van in Pittsburgh, borrowed from the local police, was even more claustrophobia-inducing than the one in New York.

Saturday night was more successful…

The black-garbed visitors arrived just before 2:00 on Sunday morning. They made it past the initial security, into the museum, and as far the room housing the Egyptian display before the lights came on and law enforcement personnel swarmed in. By noon on Sunday the thieves had cut a deal and named Jeffrey Wallace as the man behind the thefts. In turn, he folded and disclosed the location of the stolen artifacts by that night.

The paperwork took most of the day on Monday, and that night Clarkson took them out to dinner to celebrate the successful end to the case. Peter and Neal returned to New York on Tuesday morning. After the good work in Pittsburgh, Peter gave them the rest of the day off.

Neal spent the time working up his courage, and then calling Gayle Hunt to arrange for the return of the artifacts she had loaned them.


	12. Feelings, Old and New

_**A/N: Fair warning, lots of OFC at the start of this chapter. But it's necessary to get where we're going - and more Neal and Peter follows ;-)**_

* * *

Neal wandered out to the patio, staring out over the city. But tonight the view did nothing to calm his nerves.

_He hadn't been this nervous about a meeting since… well, it had been a long time._

It turned out that Gayle Hunt was coming to the city anyway for a lecture, and she'd be stopping by to pick up the artifacts.

She also wanted to talk.

It was the talking part that had him worried. Talking wasn't usually something he had a problem with. But when you lived a lie, dragged someone else unwittingly into that lie, became intimate with that someone else, and then left that person without a word of explanation or farewell…

Yeah, he was a little worried about this.

And even beyond the past sins, there was something else. Feelings that had resurfaced when he saw her again, and thought about what they had shared. There was no way he deserved a second chance with someone like her, and no reason to think at this point that she would even consider it, and yet…

And yet, he couldn't stop those feelings and thoughts.

More likely though that she wanted to talk about how he had hurt her, and who could blame her?

He took one last look around and started back inside, just as the knock sounded on the door.

Neal took a deep breath, ran his fingers nervously through his hair, and went to answer the knock.

She stood on the landing, looking almost as nervous as he felt. Khakis, a light sweater, her hair pulled back – as beautiful as he remembered.

"Hello, Neal."

"Gayle." He stepped back, letting her inside. "I'm glad you could make it." _And it was true, he realized. Even if he didn't like the conversation, it needed to be done. _

"It worked out well. I was coming in for a lecture tomorrow anyway."

"I'm sure you're in great demand."

"I do get more speaking offers than I can accept," she replied, a small smile on her face. "It always amazes me."

"Why? You're at the top of your field."

"But who wants to listen to a crusty old professor when there are rap artists and hip hop bands out there?"

He grinned. "I can't see you ever being crusty."

"Well, thank you – I think."

"It was meant as a compliment," he assured her. "Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Yes, please."

He opened the refrigerator and took out a chilled bottle of Riesling. "Still a favorite, I hope?"

"Yes, it is. Good memory."

"I remember the important things." He opened the bottle, poured two glasses, and handed one of them to her. "This one is imported from the Mainz region."

"My very favorite." She took a sip and smiled. "You always did have excellent taste in wine."

"I try."

"Excellent taste in lodging as well. This is very nice."

"You haven't seen the best part." He gestured toward the balcony and followed her out, smiling at the surprised gasp he heard.

"That is… incredible," Gayle agreed, staring out at the city lights.

"Yeah, I got pretty lucky with this."

They stood in silence for several magical minutes as Gayle took in the view. Finally she turned to him again and the spell was broken. "We really need to talk."

Neal swallowed nervously and nodded. "We can sit out here if you want," he said, pointing at the table. "Or inside."

"Out here is fine." She pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, setting her glass on the table in front of her.

Neal followed slowly and sat down across the table. And then he waited.

"You hurt me when you left," she finally said, very softly.

"I know," he admitted. "And I am really very sorry about that."

"When it all came out – con man, thief. It was so hard to hear, and it made me wonder. Was I part of that? Just another bit of whatever…"

"No," he said firmly, cutting her off. "You… what we had… that was real. I lied to you about my background, and why I was really at Cornell. But I never lied about how I felt about you."

"Why were you at Cornell? I mean, they didn't find anything missing."

"I wanted access to the library. I admit, I was making plans for other jobs – but I never intended to take anything from Cornell except knowledge."

"You wound up taking my heart as well."

"Gayle…"

"I was really falling in love with you. Did you… I mean, how did you really feel?"

"I was falling too," he admitted. "Pretty hard, to be honest. I was actually thinking about re-evaluating my plans."

"You would have given up the con for me?"

"Maybe." He sighed, looking away. "Emerson showed up, and everything fell apart so fast."

The silence sat between them for a long moment before she finally spoke again. "I had finally convinced myself I was over you, you know. Oh, not that I had totally given up on comparing men to you. But then when you showed up again a few weeks ago, after all this time, and all those feelings came flooding back…"

"They did for me too. Gayle, you saw more of the real me than I had let anyone see for a very long time."

"And yet, I don't really know you at all. I didn't even know your name."

"Nicholas Halden was an alias I've used, at Cornell, and other times."

She leaned back in her chair, eyes staring at him. "So tell me who you really are. Who is this Neal Caffrey?"

He mimicked her pose, leaning back, but his eyes looked up at the sky. "That's a good question," he said softly. "And there isn't an easy answer."

"If I wanted easy, I wouldn't be here."

"Neal Caffrey," he started slowly. "He's a con man. A forger. An art thief. He used a lot of people along the way." _He wouldn't insult her by using the 'alleged' disclaimer._

"Why?"

He looked over at her. "Why?"

She nodded. "Why do all of that? Neal, I saw your work. I listened to you teach that class. You have so much real talent."

"I guess it wasn't what I was best at," he said softly. "Living a lie was easier – most of the time anyway."

"I don't understand."

"Maybe I don't either," he admitted. "And lots of people have tried to figure it out over the years. You know, what drove me from good little boy – which I was – to criminal. But I don't know the answer, other than that I found things I was very good at, and life just went on from there."

"A man of mystery."

"Some of that, I guess. But mostly I just moved from one challenge to another."

"So Cornell was just another challenge along the way?"

"Yeah, it was. Or at least, it was supposed to be."

"Wouldn't it have been easier to just register as a student if you wanted to get access to the library? The university even offers the option to take one class instead of paying full tuition."

"Easier, maybe," he replied, a wry smile touching his face. "But I wanted the challenge. And I really do know a lot about art and art history."

"Oh, I know. As I told Agent Burke, the undergrad class you taught had higher scores than any other recent class."

That got a genuine smile. "Really? Maybe I did miss my calling."

"Do you actually have an art degree?"

"I never even finished high school," Neal admitted. "I'll have my GED in the next week or so, assuming work doesn't get in the way again."

"That's… amazing."

"See, I figured I knew a lot about art, and I could share that. And if I was a professor, I'd get paid for being on campus. I looked at quite a few schools before winding up at Cornell. It just worked out that Willingham was taking a leave of absence, and the school was looking for a short-term option."

"What happened after you left?"

"I wound up in Europe for a few months, and then back to the States. But a few things had put me on the FBI's radar, and Peter was on my trail."

"Peter? As in Agent Burke?"

"One and the same."

"And now you work with him?"

"He finally caught me on a bond forgery charge. I went to prison for four years – except just before the sentence was up, I escaped. There were reasons, and I thought they were good reasons at the time. But Peter caught me again, and they added four more years to my sentence. Fortunately, I was able to convince Peter that I could help him solve a case he was working on. He did close that case, and the FBI extended my deal."

"So this is a work release or something?"

"Sort of, yeah." He reached down and pulled up the left leg of his trousers, revealing the tracking anklet and its green light. "They monitor me. I have a two mile radius around here when I'm not working. As long as I play by the rules, and do the work assigned, I stay out of prison and work off my sentence." _And if there had been some bumps along the way in playing by the rules – even some major mountains to climb – that didn't really change the basics._

"How much longer do you have to go?"

"About twenty months." He took a deep breath before continuing. "Of course, right now, there may not be a budget for my position come January." _Yeah, that was a safe way to put it – for now._

"So then what?"

"I wind up back in prison until my sentence is finished." _Or until I die… or unless I run…_ He cut that thought off quickly.

"That hardly seems fair."

"Peter's working on it. Hopefully something works out before January."

"Would you run, like you did before?"

For as much practice he had had at handling the unexpected, and thinking on his feet, that one threw him totally off his game. He covered by taking a sip of wine. "I've been asked that a lot. But running really isn't that easy. For one thing, I'd have to leave everyone I care about behind."

"I know that hurts from the side of the person being left behind."

"It hurts from the other side too, believe me," Neal said softly. "And I'd never be able to come back to New York."

"So you'd choose prison?"

_Would he?_ "I'm hoping I don't have to choose," he admitted, hedging around the question.

"I hope so too," Gayle whispered. "I don't want anyone getting hurt again."

Neal nodded and got to his feet, walking back into the apartment. A moment later he came back carrying the plastic cases containing the artifacts. "Thank you for these," he said, setting them on the table. "They helped us close the case."

"I'm glad it worked. And I have to say, the fake ones you put together looked amazingly real."

"I always wished you luck finding something larger than shards. I created what I thought they'd look like."

"They're exactly what I would imagine. And who knows, maybe one of these days I'll find something to prove it."

"I have every confidence in you. You're going back again next summer?"

"In January, actually. I'm taking a sabbatical from Cornell. I was offered full funding for a study, and I need to take advantage of that."

"Wow, that's great."

"I guess I'm the one who gets to disappear this time."

"At least yours is planned," Neal pointed out.

"True," Gayle agreed, stifling a yawn. She glanced down at her watch and got to her feet. "I should go find my hotel. It was a long day at the university, followed by a long drive."

"Look, you can stay here," Neal offered. "I'll take the couch, I promise."

She gave him a soft smile, and reached over to run a finger lightly along his temple. "Ah, but would I let you stay there?"

"Gayle…"

"Neal, I need to think about all of this, and I can't do that here, with you." She reached into the pocket of the sweater and pulled out an envelope. "I don't know the city all that well. Is that within your two mile radius?"

He looked at the address and nodded. "I believe it is."

"The lecture tomorrow is invitation only – and you're invited, if you'd like to come."

"I'd love to."

"It's all right if you don't."

"No, really, I want to."

"Well, I guess I'll see you there then."

He reached for her hand. "Gayle…"

She pulled gently away. "I need to think, Neal." Picking up the cases, she headed inside.

He nodded and followed her through the apartment, reaching around to open the door. For just a moment they stood there, as close as two people could be without actually touching. And then she leaned in, brushing her lips ever so lightly against his cheek.

"Good night, Neal."

He watched her head down the stairs, standing as if frozen in place.

* * *

The lecture went just as he would have imagined – Gayle was brilliant, as always. _And he was certain he was being absolutely unbiased in his evaluation._ The other attendees seemed to appreciate the event as well, asking a lot of good questions.

At the reception that followed, Neal saw a lot of those people writing checks. _Good, more funding for Gayle's work._

For his part, Neal spent most of the reception nursing a glass of champagne, talking with various people, always making sure to subtly endorse Gayle's work. He was hoping to get a chance to speak to her, but she was constantly in demand, moving from one potential benefactor to another.

He had just finished talking to the head curator at the Metropolitan Museum, and was considering getting another glass of champagne, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"So what did you think? Honestly."

"Honestly?" He turned to face Gayle, smiling. "You never disappoint in a presentation."

"It's hard to come up with new angles, when my source material is so old."

"It doesn't matter. You speak so authoritatively, with so much…"

"Passion?"

He grinned. "Exactly. Passion."

"And do you think everyone sees that passion?"

"They'd have to be blind not to."

She smiled at that. "We seem to be getting some good funding," she conceded. "And they offered me a position at the Met again."

"Are you considering it?"

"Considering? Of course. I always consider offers. The thing is, I really like teaching. Seeing that spark in a student's eyes when the historical importance of that shard really hits home…"

Neal grinned. "See? Passion!"

Gayle laughed softly. "Yeah, I guess so." Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing his. "Would you like to have dinner with me, Neal?"

His breath caught, and he swallowed hard before answering. "Like a date?"

"Yeah, I guess it could be."

"I'd love to."

"I have a few more people to talk to, but it shouldn't be long."

"I'll wait."

He watched as she moved back into the dwindling crowd, stopping here and there to talk with someone. His stomach felt like it was doing flips, and that was a feeling he hadn't experience for a while. _Well, it had been kind of like that when he had been holding the gun on Fowler, but these flips were definitely different… better…_

_She'd gone away last night to think, and tonight she was asking him out to dinner. That had to be good, right?_

* * *

_Workaholic._

El frequently joked that if they actually looked the word up in a dictionary, it would be illustrated with Peter's photo. _At least he thought she was joking…_

And, here he was, at the office on a Saturday evening. Of course, El had an event going on anyway, so she couldn't say too much.

This time.

He finally had all of the paperwork finished up for the Pittsburgh trip, including the expense reports. _Man, how he hated those. But everything was itemized and justified… hopefully…_

Actually, there was one more thing. Since the artifacts Dr. Hunt had loaned them had actually wound up being used in the operation at the museum, they needed signed receipts showing that he and Neal had received the items, and that they had been returned.

He printed out the appropriate forms and reached for the phone. Neal had taken charge of the items, and was making the arrangements to return them, so Peter picked up the phone and dialed the consultant's number.

_No answer… so what was Neal up to?_

He briefly considered pulling up the tracking data, but then dismissed the idea. If Neal had gone outside of his radius, there would have been an alert. And even though he had the _right_ to know where Neal was every minute, it was a right he had exercised less and less frequently as Neal became more of a friend and partner, and less of convict to be watched incessantly.

Peter folded the papers and stuffed them into an envelope. El wouldn't be home for a little while yet. Maybe he'd stop and pick up a bottle of wine that he knew she liked, and then swing by June's. Even if Neal wasn't there he could drop the forms off and then call and leave a message.

* * *

Dinner had been one of the best experiences in recent memory. In fact, it felt like they had gone back in years to the time at Cornell, when everything was new – and he hadn't run out in a hail of lies. They had talked about new things, leaving that past behind. And it felt good, much like it had the first time around.

Except this time she actually knew who and what he was, and hadn't run screaming.

They made the drive back to June's mostly in silence, with just a couple of brief interruptions as he gave directions. And when she pulled up in front of the house, he didn't want the evening to end.

_And really, it was still early…_

"Would you like to come in for a drink?" Neal offered, hopefully. _And his heart leapt as she put the car into park and cut the ignition…_

"I'd like that."

It took a fraction of a second for her answer to register and then he was out of the car, hurrying to the other side and holding her door open as she got out. He led her around to the side door, unlocked it, and let her inside. Her arm went around his waist as they made their way up the stairs.

His hands were shaking as he tried to unlock his door.

He flipped the lights on and let Gayle in first, closing the door again behind him. "Wine?" he offered. "Or I have some Scotch, and maybe brandy, if Mozzie hasn't cleaned me out."

He watched as she set her shoulder bag down on the table and turned back, moving toward him. She didn't stop until she was right in front of him, so close he could feel the heat between them, yet not quite touching.

"I'm not really thirsty," she said, her voice so soft he wouldn't have heard her if they had been any farther apart. "Maybe later."

"What should we do in the meantime?" he whispered, heart racing, mouth dry.

Her reply was to lean in until their bodies were melded together, her lips reaching for his. They kissed, long deep, and then she finally pulled back just a bit. "We were pretty good at this before."

"Must be all the passion between us."

"Must be."

"Gayle…"

"Eyes wide open this time, Neal. I'm leaving in January. You don't know what your future will be then either."

_Or even if he had a future… but that thought passed quickly through his mind and he forced it out._

"Eyes wide open," he agreed, as he closed his eyes and took her lips again.

Later, he had no memory of getting to the bed, or of how their clothing disappeared on the way. His boxers were the last piece to go, dropped by the side of the bed as he climbed onto the mattress.

He hadn't turned the lights off, and for a moment they were just looking at each other. They were both years older, and yet everything seemed so familiar.

And as he laid down next to her, and their bodies joined, and it was as if no time had passed at all…

* * *

Peter let himself in the side door with the key June had provided him shortly after Neal had moved in and headed up the stairs. The rest of the house was dark and quiet, but he'd seen the lights on in the upstairs room as he drove up. So, wherever Neal had been before, he was apparently home now.

June had absolutely refused, however, to provide a key to the apartment itself. Peter had argued the details early on, pointing out that he had that _right_ to check on Neal any hour of the day or night.

June simply told him that he should _do_ what was right instead and knock. And the fact was, he had never asked about a key again.

He got to the landing, and knocked.

He waited, and then knocked again. "Neal?"

He thought he heard something behind the closed door, and he waited. A moment later the door opened just a little bit and Neal looked out. "Peter?"

Peter smiled, taking in the younger man's rather disheveled look. "Turning in early tonight, are we?"

"Something like that," Neal replied, somewhat vaguely. "Did you need something?"

"Yeah, need to talk about finishing up some of the paperwork from Pittsburgh. Can I come in?"

Neal looked over his shoulder, and then back toward Peter. "Ummm, Peter, this isn't a good time."

"If you had answered your phone before, maybe I would have known the timing was bad."

"Sorry, I had it turned off."

"It's only going to take a few minutes."

Neal looked over his shoulder again and took a deep breath before answering. "Peter, I'm not alone."

"Mozzie still doesn't want to see me?"

Neal looked down at his boxers-only state of dress and gave Peter a wry smile. "Peter, it's not Mozzie, believe me," he said, stepping out into the hall.

Now it registered on Peter that Neal was only wearing boxers…

"It's Saturday night, Peter. People go on dates sometimes on Saturdays."

"You had a date."

"Yeah, you know, boy meets girl, girl asks boy out to dinner, boy says yes."

"Wait, she asked _you_ out?"

"It is the 21st century, Peter, it happens. And sometimes, if the date goes well, the boy doesn't go home alone…"

"Ahhhh." Peter could feel himself blushing as the reason for Neal's refusal to open the door fully registered.

"So, unless you feel the need to verify that she's over eighteen and consenting…"

"No. No, that won't be necessary."

"Thank you." Neal ran a hand through his hair and then pointed at the envelope in Peter's hand. "Is that what you needed to talk about?"

"What?" Peter looked down at the envelope, his purpose momentarily forgotten. "Oh, yeah." He handed the papers over. "Just something that Dr. Hunt needs to sign when you return the artifacts. You said you'd make the arrangements."

"He did, and I have them."

Both men turned as the door opened wider and Gayle stepped out, wrapped up in Neal's robe.

"Dr. Hunt."

"It's kind of informal here. Maybe we could be Peter and Gayle."

Peter nodded, blushing again. "Gayle. I apologize for the intrusion. I had no idea."

"Well, I can confirm the over eighteen and consenting issue, if needed."

"I'll take your word for that."

"Thank you." She reached for the envelope in Neal's hand. "I believe I heard my name in connection with this?"

Peter nodded. "Just some forms concerning those artifacts you let us use. Neal said he was arranging to return them to you."

"I have them," she confirmed. "They're in my car."

Neal looked at her, a puzzled look on his face. "In your car? That doesn't seem as safe as your hotel room."

Her hand reached for his, fingers intertwining. "Actually, I checked out this morning. I was kind of hoping I wouldn't need the room tonight."

Neal's answering smile was soft and genuine. "I think I can offer you another alternative for the night."

Peter was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. "Look, I really am sorry," he said. "If I'd had any idea you were going to be here, I wouldn't have come."

"Well, I was coming to the city for a lecture anyway," Gayle explained. "So when Neal called about returning the artifacts, it seemed like a good time to combine the two tasks. I drove in last night, and we had a chance to talk."

"She got to meet the real Neal Caffrey," Neal said.

"I invited Neal to the lecture, and then I invited him to dinner."

"That would be the date part," Peter said.

"Exactly," Gayle said, smiling. "Neal mentioned you were a pretty smart man."

"Oh he did, did he?" Peter glanced over at the younger man, who simply shrugged.

"He did," Gayle confirmed. She held up the envelope. "Do you need these now?"

"No, not right now," Peter replied. "When do you go back to Ithaca?"

"Oh, late tomorrow afternoon. I have an early staff meeting on Monday morning."

"Well, maybe you'd like to come by tomorrow for Sunday dinner," Peter suggested. "My wife would love to meet you, and the dog kind of likes it when Neal stops by."

"Satchmo does like me," Neal confirmed.

"Well, if you're sure it's all right…" Gayle started.

Neal nodded his agreement, as did Peter. "Nothing formal," the agent said, "but we'd love to have you come over."

"Then I accept. Thank you."

"Want me to bring the wine?" Neal offered.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Peter replied. "Not sure what the menu will be yet though."

"I'll bring both red and white."

"All right. Ummm, maybe figure on around noon?"

"We'll be there," Neal confirmed.

"And I'll bring the forms," Gayle added, holding up the envelope.

"Right. Thanks." Peter looked back toward the stairs. "Look, I'm really sorry for barging in on you. It's just, I saw the light on, and I didn't think…"

"Peter, it's all right," Neal said. "Most nights it probably would have been just me and Mozzie here." He paused, grinning. "But I do usually wear more clothes with Moz around."

"That's comforting, I think," Peter said, turning for the stairs. "All right, I'm leaving. Enjoy your night, and I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Peter."

* * *

"What do you suppose they're talking about in there?" Peter asked.

He and Neal had been banished to the living room, while Gayle and Elizabeth were sequestered in the kitchen, supposedly finishing up dinner preparations. But their voices could be heard, though too low to make out the words. And more distracting were the occasional bouts of laughter that emanated from behind the swinging door…

"No idea," Neal admitted, sipping his beer. Peter had decreed that to be the beverage of choice as they sat in front of the television with the football game on. The wine Neal had brought could wait until dinner was served.

"And it doesn't bother you?" Peter pressed.

"What? That they might be – no, that they are _probably_ talking about us?" Neal grinned and shook his head. "Nope, doesn't bother me. Peter, I just found Gayle again, and I never thought that was possible. After everything with Kate… well, I wasn't sure I could even feel this way again. Gayle can talk about anything she wants to as long as I don't lose her. Well, until January anyway," he added, his voice trailing off.

"Neal, we are going to figure something out," Peter said firmly.

"Yeah, maybe so," Neal said noncommittally. "But I lose Gayle anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"She's taking a sabbatical next term and going back to Egypt to work on a dig site. Even if I manage to stay out of prison, she'll be gone."

"Still a long time until January," Peter said softly.

"Sure, three months," Neal said. "Not exactly a lifetime, but I guess I'll take what I can get."

Peter took a long pull on his beer, thinking, and unable to come up with a reply. _What did you tell someone under those circumstances, when life was measured in months, not years or decades?_

_He couldn't think of a thing._


	13. Tempus Fugit

**_A/N: Tempus fugit -latin for "time flies." If this was a show episode, you'd see something like "Two months later" flash across the bottom of the screen (like in "Withdrawal"). You get a touch more detail here :-)_**

**__**

**_

* * *

_**

October passed quickly and, for the most part, uneventfully – at least as far as bad events went. Peter and Neal kept occupied with cases, keeping the prosecutors busy with their closure rate.

Gayle and Neal settled into something of a routine. She would drive down to the city after her Friday class let out and they would spend the weekend together. Sometimes that meant driving back to Ithaca Sunday night, but other weeks she had no Monday morning commitments. On those occasions they shared Sunday night as well, and she dropped Neal off at the federal building before heading out of town.

Peter did his best to keep case work from carrying over into Saturday. Sometimes, he 'forgot' to tell the marshals to start the tracking on Neal's anklet again after they finished work on Friday. That gave Neal and Gayle a little more freedom in what they chose to do with their limited time together. And Neal never failed to show up at the office on Monday mornings.

Neal completed his GED testing, acing everything except the American History topic, where he missed one question. _And for weeks afterward he would argue to anyone who would listen that he was right, and the test wrong._ He moved on to a community college that ran a program aligned with several government agencies. The program allowed him to test out of some advanced topics, and to work on other courses at a very accelerated rate.

Elizabeth organized a Halloween party on the Saturday before All Hallows Eve. In keeping with her area of expertise, Gayle went dressed as Nefertiti, while Neal did his best impression of Indiana Jones, complete with bull whip. Peter had put together a doctor's outfit for a costume, while Elizabeth was a stork…

Which went well with her announcement that, come April, there would be a baby Burke in the world.

Neal was the first to offer his heartfelt congratulations – which made it easier for him to slip outside for a bit directly afterward. _He was so happy for Peter and Elizabeth. But the reality hit that he might very well not be around for the blessed event – that he might never see Peter's son or daughter._

Because they had made no progress on finding Larrsen, or the man behind him pulling the strings. No one had yet found any verifiable information on who had blocked the budget fund. Mozzie was still stymied about who was being notified if Neal's name came up in the Bureau's systems.

November rolled in with chill breezes in the air, confirming that autumn was truly ending and winter was on its way.

Julie Cole finally exhausted her options and admitted to Peter that there was no way to legally break the release agreement and separate Neal's work arrangements from the money. She had also been blocked at every attempt to set up a new agreement for January. She did, however, bring up another possibility – a long shot, totally outside of the Bureau, something that would have been better to have had in motion much earlier. But it was _something_, a chance, and Peter grabbed onto it for all he was worth. He spent late nights filling out forms, assembling case files, and wheedling statements of support out of some of the other senior agents. Hughes was the only other one who knew what was going on; they both agreed that there was no sense in getting Neal's hopes up for something that had no predictable outcome.

Time marched resolutely on, bringing the end of the year ever closer.

Thanksgiving approached, and Peter made a decision…

* * *

"Gayle, that was excellent," Peter said, handing over the last of the dried dishes to be put away.

"Well, thank you. And Elizabeth, I know I said it before, but that pie was wonderful. Thank you for bringing it."

"Oh, it was nothing! I wish you would have let me bring more."

"No need for you to haul food for four hours. Ithaca may not be New York City, but we do have grocery stores," Gayle replied, laughing.

The back door opened just then and Neal walked in, his arms full of wood. "Laughing at me?" he asked.

"Paranoid much?" Peter teased. "I think Mozzie is rubbing off on you."

"Well, as Mozzie would point out," Neal started, dropping his load in the bin by the fireplace, "just because you're paranoid doesn't mean…"

"That someone isn't really after you," Peter finished. "Yeah, I know."

"Honey, I think we should get going," Elizabeth said. "I can't wait to see that hotel!"

"I'm really glad you could be here," Gayle said.

Elizabeth hugged the other woman. "Oh, me too!"

Neal opened the hall closet and pulled out the two coats. He handed one to Peter, and held the other for Elizabeth as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

"Did you want some of the turkey to take along?" Gayle asked.

"It's only about an hour to the hotel," Elizabeth started. "But I am so hungry all the time these days," she added, a hand on her abdomen. "I might take a little."

"I'll get some for you."

The two women headed for the kitchen, leaving the men standing by the door.

"Peter, thank you so much for this," Neal said softly. Both men knew that the agent had bent some rules to give Neal the long weekend in Ithaca.

"I wanted you to have something to be thankful for," Peter replied.

"I am, believe me."

"Remember that when we go back to the office on Monday and the work is piled up."

"I'll remember," Neal assured him. "And I can go around town here, right?"

Peter nodded. "The tracker isn't being monitored. We'll be back to pick you up about 2:00 on Sunday. And Neal…"

"I'll be here, Peter." Neal looked around the corner, smiling as he watched Gayle wrapping leftovers in plastic. Her ginger cat, Ramses, was rubbing at her ankles, looking for tidbits. "Believe me, there is nowhere else I want to be right now."


	14. Temptation

December arrived, and with it the first snow. Holiday decorations were everywhere, whichever holiday you were looking for - Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, or just Christmakwanzahanukkah. Store windows were plastered with signs for special sales and lowest prices of the season.

Neal and June issued invitations to a New Year's Eve party at her home. To those who voiced surprise – mainly Peter – Neal simply explained that no, he hadn't given up on a solution to his dilemma. He still hoped to be working as a consultant come January, just as he was now. But if nothing changed… well, he was going out with a bang.

Normally crowded anyway, the city teemed now with even more people. City dwellers ventured out more often to shop, to see the lights, or to enjoy one of the myriad of holiday activities available. Commuters stayed in town longer in the evenings for the same reasons. And tourists flocked in, wanting to experience the holiday season in the city that never slept. From the ice rink at Rockefeller Center, to the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, to the Grinch at an off-Broadway stage, there was something for everyone.

Yes, they all came to New York City.

* * *

The first sign of trouble came that Wednesday morning, a little over a week before Christmas. Peter had picked Neal up and everything seemed normal until they stepped out of the elevator on the 21st floor.

The bullpen area was filled with people – more than would normally be there. Peter recognized some of them from other units, while some faces weren't familiar at all.

Neal nudged his arm, pointing up to the top of the stairs. "Isn't that the guy from Counter Terrorism who's talking to Hughes?"

"Yeah, Tony Lake."

Just then Peter heard his name and looked up to find he was the subject of the dreaded double finger point by Hughes. "Oh, this can't be good," he muttered, starting for the stairs.

Neal headed for his desk, only to hear his name called – and find the fingers pointed at him too. _Right, definitely not good._

They met in the conference room – Hughes, Lake, Peter, Neal, and a few other department heads and agents. Most of the crowd was left milling about downstairs.

"We may have a situation," Hughes started. "I think most of you know Tony Lake from Counter Terrorism."

Lake stepped forward, nodding to those around the table. At a guess, Neal figured he was a little older than Peter, somewhat shorter but broader in the shoulder. Blond hair, maybe going a little gray at the temples. Green eyes that looked tired behind wire rimmed glasses.

"I got a communiqué from Homeland early this morning," Lake began. "The NSA had been picking up some chatter about a new plot focusing on New York, but there were no details. Then late last night a tip came in that these two men have been seen in New York." He clicked a remote and photos appeared on the screen. "Mark is passing out hard copies of the report with more background, but suffice it to say these men have known, strong ties to Al Qaeda. If they're here, something is going on."

"No clue about the target?" someone asked.

Lake shook his head. "None. And a lot of potential targets."

"Even more so with all of the holiday events," Peter said.

Hughes stepped up again. "This is why everyone has been called in. From here on, this takes priority over everything else. You're all on Counter Terrorism duty as of right now, and until we either find these guys, or disprove the threat. Cancel any other meetings or follow up you may have on other cases."

"What do we tell those people?" an agent asked.

"Tell them you're looking into leads," Lake suggested.

"Hell, tell them you're sick," Hughes added. "If anyone pushes back, refer them to me. We just need to keep the terror aspect contained." He held up the packet of information that had been passed out. "Everyone downstairs is getting this too, right after we break. Read it, talk to your teams, then hit the streets. Use every source you possibly can. There's a cover story about an armored car robbery in there for you to use." He turned and looked at Neal. "Caffrey, I know you have some street sources we don't."

"Not exactly terror experts," Neal said. "But I'll contact whoever I can."

Hughes nodded and then continued. "We've had drills for this, people, and we knew it was only a matter of time before they tried to hit New York again. But this time, we're going to stop them, even if we have to turn over every brick and stone in the city. Someone has seen these guys. Someone has sold them materials, or rented them a vehicle, or given them shelter. Now, I'll be coordinating information here, so anything you find, pass it through me. Lake will be over at One Police Plaza as liaison with the NYPD. The governor is activating the National Guard, and we have extra Coast Guard reinforcements around the harbor areas. By this afternoon we'll have more agents on the ground from DC. I want these guys, and I want them fast."

Everyone took that as a sign to leave, and the conference room quickly emptied. Neal followed Peter back to the agent's office, where Jones and Diana were already waiting, looking at the reports that they had just been given.

"This is for real?" Diana asked as they walked in.

Peter sat down behind his desk and nodded. "Apparently so."

"But there's nothing in here about what the target is," Jones pointed out.

"They don't know," Peter confirmed. "Just some general chatter, and two known terrorists rumored to be in town."

Diana shook her head and looked back down at the folder. "Where do we even start?"

"We're going to go through everything in this file," Peter said, opening his copy. "Then we hit the streets. Jones, you stick with Neal. He's going to work his sources."

The younger agent nodded. "Right."

"Diana, you and I will start with all of the sources we can come up with," Peter continued. "They could be using banks, pawn shops, car services – the types of businesses we deal with all the time."

"I haven't been in on any of those terrorism drills Hughes mentioned," Neal said. "Anything I should know?"

"All hands on deck," Diana said.

"And look under every rock," Jones added.

Peter nodded. "That's pretty much it. Each unit has its assigned areas to investigate. That's what Diana and I will be working on. When you and Jones finish up on your end, let me know and I'll keep you busy."

"Doesn't seem like that's going to be a problem for a while," Neal said softly, opening his folder.

* * *

"Moz, this is important."

The shorter man muttered a distinct "hmmmmph" but didn't turn around. He sat with his back to the table, arms folded across his chest.

"Moz?"

"Your message said to meet you. There was no mention of a junior Suit."

"Look, we really don't have time for this," Jones said.

"I know." Neal stepped in front of his friend and leaned down, eye to eye. "This is _really_ important, Moz."

Mozzie finally sighed and turned partially toward the table. "It had better be."

Neal pushed the photos toward him. "We need to find these men."

"So now I'm the missing persons bureau? I thought the Suits had one of those."

"Would it help if I left?" Jones asked.

"No," Neal said quickly. "That won't be necessary." He pulled a chair around so he was sitting in front of Mozzie. "Moz?"

Mozzie sighed theatrically and finally looked at the photos. "All right, what's so important about these two?"

"There was an armored car robbery…" Jones started.

"No, no robbery," Neal said. "Moz, these two have ties to Al Qaeda, and they might be here in New York, planning something."

"That's not the cover story," Jones warned.

"I know. But we need to find them."

Mozzie finally looked interested. "You said might be planning something. The Suits don't know for sure?"

"No, we don't," Jones admitted.

"The FBI and the police are checking official avenues," Neal said. "Hotels, car services, things like that. But no one knows the unofficial sources like you."

"True," Mozzie replied. "But I'm still not…"

"Moz, think about all the people in the city," Neal urged, his voice quiet but forceful.

For a long moment no one spoke. "Fine, I'll make some inquiries."

"Thanks, Moz."

* * *

Neal and Jones made a few other stops as well, tapping into other acquaintances he thought might be helpful. None of them were in the 'trusted' category like Mozzie, so they didn't get the real story behind the search. But promises of cash rewards seemed to be an appropriate motivator.

With the more unofficial resources in play, Neal and Jones met up with Peter and Diana for a late lunch, and to get a further assignment. Peter turned over the next page of the official leads that the FBI had assigned for investigation, and the two younger men took their leave.

_It made Neal feel good to be included as one of the team on something like this – not that he was happy about a terror threat in the city, but this wasn't exactly in his area of expertise. Normally, he would have been shunted to one side while the agents conducted official inquiries. But this really was all hands on deck and, fortunately, Jones didn't seem to mind the new partnership arrangement._

Along with hundreds of other agents and police officers, they knocked on doors and asked questions until late in the evening. The next morning, with no real leads reported, they hit the streets again.

To the consternation of some – but to no surprise to those who knew the parties involved – it was the 'unofficial' sources who came up with the first leads. One of Mozzie's many contacts found an off the record chop shop that specialized in obtaining specific vehicles to order – when someone requested something, someone was sent out to find and steal the vehicle in question. Then it was either scrubbed and sold whole to the buyer, or chopped up for parts.

The rumor was that a man matching one of the suspects' descriptions had requested a Dodge Sprinter, which had been delivered on Tuesday.

Neal and Jones met Peter and Diana at the garage – along with a sizeable SWAT unit from the NYPD. The sheer force of numbers kept the bloodshed to a minimum when entry was made, because the operators were well armed and ready to fight. But offers of immunity and reduced sentences worked, and the agents wound up with a confirmation on the identity of one of the suspected terrorists, as well as the color, license plate and VIN of the Sprinter.

The plate was probably no good – it was a pretty sure bet that the plates had already been switched. But it went into the official APB anyway. The VIN might be useful – if they could find the van.

Unfortunately, the combination van-truck was one of the most popular vehicles for delivery services, so there were a lot of possibilities on the street that needed to be checked. And under the circumstances, with a potential bomb in the suspect vehicle, they couldn't just boldly pull over every Sprinter seen. Plainclothes teams were assigned to follow any vehicles sighted to try and identify the owners, and verify the drivers.

A call went out to law enforcement and military sources for bomb-sniffing dogs. And a portable radiation detector was brought in and set to patrolling the streets of the city; everyone hoped it wasn't necessary, but no one really knew what the threat would truly turn out to be.

Again, they worked late into the night, but the right Sprinter eluded them.

Until Friday morning…

* * *

It was getting old, this driving up and down street after street, looking for Sprinters. Jones and Neal had quickly figured out that to stay sharp they needed to trade off jobs now and then. They had just switched back, with Jones driving again, when Neal's phone warbled.

He fished it out of his jacket pocket. "Moz?" There was silence for a long moment as he listened. "They're sure? OK, yeah, I understand. What? Right. Probably a good idea. Thanks, Mozzie."

He was dialing again as he turned to Jones. "Head for Fifth Avenue," he said, putting the phone to his ear. "Peter, one of Mozzie's contacts just came through. He says there's a Sprinter parked near Rockefeller Center, and the driver who got out matches the description of one of the suspects. No, he didn't get a plate number, but it's near a newsstand on 50th. Right, we're heading that way now."

"Oh, man, Rockefeller Center?" Jones shook his head slowly. "The Christmas tree, the skating rink, the Gardens, all those shops."

"Yeah, lots of people – lots of potential victims," Neal said softly. "We're meeting Peter and Diana on the 49th street side. He's calling in reinforcements."

"Oh, man." Jones' hands tightened on the wheel as he maneuvered through the traffic. A few shortcuts brought them out to one of the city's most recognizable areas in about ten minutes.

They arrived just as Peter and Diana were pulling up from the other direction. Jones and Neal slipped into the back seat of the other car as soon as it was stopped.

"How positive was the ID on the driver?" Peter asked without preamble.

"Mozzie said his source was pretty sure."

"Who's the contact?"

The seriousness of the situation was evident when Neal didn't even hesitate before giving up the identity. "The newsstand vendor. I don't know his name."

"All right, let's take a walk." They all got out and started toward Fifth Avenue. The sidewalks were crowded with people taking advantage of the nearby shopping opportunities, their arms laden with packages.

At the next corner they paused, and Peter pointed toward the newsstand on the opposite side. "Diana, Jones, you talk to the vendor." The two agents nodded and moved off quickly, and Peter turned to Neal. "Let's see if we can get eyes on the van."

They walked down the street, eyes on the vehicles around them. And then halfway down the block…

"There," Neal said, pointing to a cross street – with a gray Sprinter parked illegally close to the corner.

Pewter nodded. "Let's get a little closer."

Neal reached out, grabbing his arm. "Peter, we don't know what might be in there."

"We don't even know if it's the right van," Peter countered. Just then his phone rang. "Yeah, Diana. He's sure? Uh huh. All right, wait there until we get some backup here." He turned back to Neal. "The newsstand guy is sure about the driver," he said.

"So what now? If it's a bomb…"

Peter was already calling someone else. "Reese, we may have found the van. Right, just off of 50th across from Rockefeller Center. Yeah, I know. There are a lot of people here. I agree, trying to evacuate could lead to them setting a bomb off – if that's what it is. Right, if you could get someone with one of the dogs over here. Uh huh. Yeah, the radiation sniffer too. We can set up on the other side, 49th."

"Peter?"

"Hughes is getting some help in here," he said. "And you're right, we're not going any closer. That's for the experts. We'll just watch until they get here."

* * *

If this was the right van, they had to assume it was being watched. Two plainclothes officers walked the bomb-sniffing dogs along the sidewalk, making a turn that took them right next to the Sprinter.

Both dogs reacted strongly, indicating explosives.

Fortunately, the radiation sniffer showed no signs of radioactive material when it was driven slowly by.

Another van rolled by, a special x-ray device inside. It captured what was inside the boxed rear portion, sending grainy photos back to the command van that had taken up station on the other side of Rockefeller Center. Bomb experts studied what they could see, trying to determine what type of device it was, and if it could be disarmed. They looked for a timer, or other means of setting off the explosives.

Uniformed officers made sweeps of the area, but only a few, just to show a presence. The majority in uniform were kept away lest their being there should spook the bomb's makers.

In pairs and small groups, agents in plain clothes made their way into the area, waiting for assignments.

* * *

They had commandeered an empty storefront as a command center and a cross section of the responding agencies was represented there now. FBI agents maintained surveillance from the van parked out front and on monitors hastily set up inside. Drones with cameras and heat-seeking abilities flew overhead.

"You're sure?" Hughes asked.

The bomb disposal expert nodded. "As sure as we can be under the circumstances. There's no sign of a timer. That means if they want this thing to go off, someone has to be in the area to do it."

"So does that mean a cell phone? Or some other kind of detonator?"

"Not enough detail to say."

Hughes sighed and turned to the SWAT team leader. "Can we jam frequencies in the area?"

The officer shook his head. "We'd need a better idea what we're looking at. I mean, yes, we can jam frequencies – but what frequencies? If it's set off by a phone we can cut service to the local towers – but that won't help if it's a satellite phone. And if it's some other kind of detonator? There are just too many possibilities. Hell, it could be something as simple as a garage door opener, or as complicated as a custom design."

"I'd suggest at least cutting the cell towers," Lake said. "We can move in some ConEd trucks, make it look like there are some phone and power issues in the area."

"We're sure that one of these guys isn't just in the back of the truck with his finger on the switch?" someone asked.

"Nothing on the x-ray, and no body heat signature on the scans from the drone."

"Did this newsstand guy have any idea where the suspect went after parking the truck?" Hughes asked.

Diana shook her head. "He only noticed the guy because the truck parked too close to the corner. And then the driver got out in a hurry and walked down 50th until he got lost in the crowd."

"No one has mentioned seeing the second man yet," Peter pointed out. Counter terrorism wasn't exactly his area of primary expertise, but it was his team that had actually located the vehicle, so they had been invited to stay.

"What's the best guess on a range for detonating this thing?" Lake asked.

"We can't tell for certain," one of the bomb experts said. "But most remote units need to be triggered from a distance of no more than two to three blocks. Of course, if it is a cell phone detonator, the distance could be increased."

"So theoretically, the second guy could be sitting in Jersey and make a call from there," someone observed.

"True," the bomb expert agreed.

"Any estimates on the size of the blast if this thing goes off?" Lake asked quietly.

There was a pause before the bomb squad leader answered. "From what we can see, there's a lot of explosive in there. And a lot of what looks to be shrapnel – nails and the like. It's basically a big pipe bomb. The blast itself would probably take out part of the block – and the nails…"

Eyes turned to the surveillance monitors, which showed people gathered around the huge Christmas tree at the center, ice skating on the popular rink, wandering through the Gardens, carrying their shopping treasures…

"We can't evacuate the area quickly or quietly," Hughes said softly, the burden of being the one who had to make the decisions evident on his face. "All right, get the utility trucks here, and let's cut the cell service. That's one thing we can do. And if it turns out we need to clear the area, cutting the power might be one way to make people leave." He turned to the SWAT leader again. "When does the other drone get here?"

"Should be any time now."

"All right, we know that most of these jihadists like to watch their work, and don't mind dying," Hughes continued. "So I'm betting that whoever is supposed to detonate this thing isn't in Jersey, he's right here, close to the bomb. We'll use the drones to scan the crowds. Until then, Tony, get some agents wandering through the area, see if we can get lucky and get eyes on one or both of these guys. But they're to identify and observe only, not approach, Just report back."

Lake nodded in agreement. "Understood." He pointed over to one side where a large map of the area had been laid out. "Anyone who's available, over here. Let's figure out a pattern."

At Peter's nod, Jones and Diana headed over to join the search part. Neal started to go too, but Peter stopped him.

"What? Peter, I'm available."

"Available, yes. But you're not a trained agent." Peter held up a hand, cutting off the younger man's protest. "Neal, you've done good work. I know it was leads from you and Mozzie that got us here, and I'll make sure Hughes and Lake and whoever else know that too. But like you said the other day, you haven't been through the drills on this, and you're not armed."

"It's my city too, Peter," Neal said softly. "I need to do something."

"Then use your eye for detail and help with the surveillance," Hughes said as he joined them. "I can use both of you at the monitors."

Neal still looked disappointed, but he nodded in agreement and followed Peter over to the bank of monitors. A couple of new screens flickered to life as the second drone came online. Two technicians sat nearby, directing the small craft with joysticks as they began making passes over the crowds in the area.

Peter and Neal each pulled a chair up close to the monitors and began their task.

* * *

The call came in at 11:45, forwarded by the city's 9-1-1 service. Hughes took the call on the command center phone, and almost immediately he was gesturing for quiet and putting the call on speaker.

"Could you repeat that?" Hughes asked. "There was static on the line."

_"I said that I have a bomb in New York . I will cause it to explode if you do not do exactly what I say."_

Peter whispered quickly to the nearest technician to record the call, and then he ran outside, followed closely by Neal.

"We need to find Lake," Peter said, scanning the area as he pulled out his cell phone. "We have contact, so he can't cut the cell coverage."

"Up there," Neal said, pointing. "Didn't they say they'd bring in a ConEd truck?"

"Yeah, they did. Let's go."

* * *

Years of emergency preparation kicked in, and things moved fast. A hostage negotiator was brought in to assist Hughes in dealing with the terrorist's demands - which now included the release of all 'freedom fighters' being held at the Guantanamo base, as well as those who had been convicted in various state and federal courts and were currently incarcerated around the country. There was also mention of some fifty million dollars and a plane.

While Hughes kept the man talking, offering vague assurances on the demands, the technicians set about tracking the call. And it turned out the caller was close – in the Channel Gardens, near the skating rink.

The good news was that they could block off one end of the Gardens and keep more people from entering the area. Some of the nearby buildings were evacuated through back doors as well, with a cover story of a gas leak in the area.

But if they tried to evacuate the whole area, they were warned that the bomb would be set off with no further warning. The caller also claimed to be wearing a suicide vest, which would cause additional harm to those in the area.

Plainclothes agents and police officers filed into the area, gently steering people away from the Gardens. Others walked through, looking for the caller. In short order they had two possible suspects located, both of whom were busy on cell phones, and both of whom bore a resemblance to one of the photos. But then one of the men hung up and welcomed a woman with a smile and a kiss as they moved off toward some shops.

That left one – and soon the drone was hovering overhead, sending video images to the monitors in the command center.

* * *

Hughes was still on the phone, trying to negotiate. He'd concede a point, then bargain for time on the next. All the while, hoping that his team could solve the problem – preferably without blowing up a major attraction and all of the people gathered there.

Peter was back in front of the monitors, with Lake taking the other open position. Neal had been relegated to looking over the agents' shoulders. Actually, looking over Peter's shoulder; Lake had suggested, loudly, that unqualified, non-agents should excuse themselves from the command center. But Peter had told him Neal was staying, and Lake made no further objections – other than to tell him to stand and watch, and keep quiet.

There was something about the activity on the monitors though…

"Hey.."

Lake turned and glared. "I told you to keep quiet."

Neal met the glare with a steady gaze of his own, and a small shrug. "Well, I just thought you might like to know where the detonator is."

Lake seemed perplexed, but Peter jumped in. "What did you see?"

Neal leaned in toward the closest technician. "Can you play back the last few minutes? Fast forward is fine."

The video was coming in on several feeds, so the technician nodded, reset his display to a few minutes earlier, and started it forward. Peter leaned closer and, despite his objections to Neal being there, so did Lake.

"I've been watching him, each time he mentions blowing up the truck," Neal said, leaning over their shoulders. "There!" he said pointing. "His hand brushes the right-hand pocket of his jacket."

Peter grinned knowingly. "That's his tell," he said softly.

"His tell?" Lake asked.

"Just like playing poker with someone," Peter said. "You watch to see if the other guy has a nervous tic or something that gives away when he's bluffing."

"This guy definitely has a tic," Neal agreed. "And if the detonator is in his pocket, I can get it."

"And just how would you do that?" Lake asked.

Neal grinned. "The same way I got these," he said, producing three wallets.

Lake and the technician were patting their pockets while Peter just shook his head. "I know you can do that, and I still never catch it." He reclaimed his wallet.

"I know," Neal replied, looking very pleased.

"A wallet's a little different than taking a detonator from a terrorist," Lake pointed out, grabbing his wallet back.

Neal handed the last wallet back to the technician as he shook his head. "Not really."

"We were distracted," the technician pointed out.

"I can distract him too," Neal said. "Look, it's worth a try, isn't it? There's a lot of explosive and shrapnel in that truck."

"He'd still have the suicide vest."

"But that would hurt a lot fewer people if it went off. And if I get the detonator, you can clear people out quickly, maybe even get a sniper in."

"You'd be right in the line of the blast if he sets the vest off," Peter pointed out.

"Have you got a better option?" Neal asked quietly. "I know the risks, Peter, and I'm willing to do this. Like I said, it's my city too."

"All right, say we do this," Lake said. "What would you need?"

"Well, to start with, some peppermint schnapps…"

* * *

Neal fastened the combat vest that Peter had insisted on, and then took his shirt back from the agent and put it on again. The vest made the shirt kind of tight, but he managed to get the buttons done up. His tailored suit coat didn't leave room to hide the vest, but Peter's was enough looser, without being obviously not his, and it would work. His tie went back on as well, but loose, which helped hide the slight bulge of the vest under his shirt.

The surveillance van parked outside yielded the monitoring equipment they needed. A tie pin contained a tiny camera and microphone, backed up by a watch that recorded everything. A tiny ear piece gave Neal the ability to hear instructions from the command center.

As a final touch, Neal took the schnapps that a junior agent had been sent out to find. He took a swig, swished it in his mouth like mouthwash, and then spit it out on the side of the street. He poured a little more of the liquid into the street as well, leaving a bottle about half full – as though he had been drinking for a while.

Slipping the bottle into one of his suit coat pockets, Neal let his body go slack. He stumbled a few steps, finally bumping into Peter. "Hey, buddy," he said, his voice slurred. "Where's that Statue of [hic] Liberty from here?"

Peter smiled and pushed him back. "Yeah, very good, you're drunk." He paused, staring at Neal. "All right, what did you take?"

Neal straightened up, grinning. "Just your keys… your badge… your money clip." He handed each item over as he spoke.

"You're incorrigible," Peter said, though there was something akin to pride in his voice as he said it. "Any questions about the plan?" he asked, all business now.

"No, I got it. Once I have the detonator I'll sing Joy to the World."

"You could just say it."

"No, singing is better," Neal insisted. "More in keeping with my cover. Like you said, he'll still have the vest."

"Right, sing away." Peter hesitated a moment and then unsnapped his shoulder holster, pulling out his gun. "Put this in the other pocket," he said.

"Peter…"

"I know you don't like guns, Neal, and I respect that. But like you just said, he'll still have the vest."

"You'll have snipers."

"You might be in the way. It's the only way you're going, Neal."

Neal sighed and took the gun. He checked the safety and then slipped it into his pocket. "I'll take it, but we really shouldn't count on me shooting anyone."

"Noted." Peter looked inside, getting a thumbs up gesture from Lake. "He's still in place."

"All right, let's do this…"

* * *

_"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas…"_

They sat in the command center, watching as a staggering, singing drunk approached their suspect.

_"With every Christmas card I write…"_

The man was ranting on the speakers, extolling the virtues of Mohammed and jihad. His concentration on detailing his manifesto was complete enough that he seemed oblivious of the other man in the area until there was literally a collision between the two.

_"Oh, sorry, sorry," Neal said, brushing at some imaginary dirt on the other man's jacket._

_The terrorist seemed to recoil at the smell of the alcohol on Neal's breath. "Infidel," he muttered, the sound caught perfectly by the microphone Neal wore. He pushed the drunk away and fumbled with his cell phone again._

"Did he get it?" Lake asked anxiously, as they watched Neal stagger on his way.

_"Joy to the world…"_

Peter let out the breath he had been holding and smiled. "He got it."

Lake reached for the radio issuing orders. Armored agents from the Emergency Response Team and officers from SWAT moved in, quickly herding people out of the area. Gas leak…

In the command center, they watched and listened carefully. The terrorist made another mention of the truck bomb, his hand went to his pocket…

He looked around frantically, as if expecting to see the detonator on the ground near him. And then he screamed a curse into the phone, and his hand moved under his jacket…

Peter reached for the microphone. "Neal, run!"

* * *

_"Neal, run!"_

He ran, but there wasn't enough time. The blast from the vest caught him in the middle of the back, sending him sprawling on the cold ground. Instinct made him throw his arms up, covering his head and neck, as the world seemed to rip around him.

* * *

Peter ran out of the command center, across the road, into the Gardens. There were other footsteps behind him, but he didn't wait or even turn to see who was there.

In the Gardens, a smoke cloud rose from where the terrorist had been standing; there was no trace of the man left. Debris was scattered around the area, littering the blast radius. And near the edge of that radius…

"Neal!" Peter dropped to his knees next to the body. The back of his jacket was shredded, and there were some bloody cuts on the younger man's forearms and hands. But was he…

Neal groaned and rolled over onto his back. "Peter?"

"Hey, buddy," Peter said, grabbing the other man's hand. "Are you all right?" He reached over, brushing some blood away from Neal's eyes.

Neal didn't reply for a moment, almost as though he was doing his own internal inventory. "I don't think anything's broken," he finally said. "My head feels like a truck ran over it though."

"I think you hit your head when you fell."

"I didn't exactly fall, Peter, I was blown up!"

"Blown down, more like," Peter countered, finally able to smile. If Neal was feeling well enough to argue, that was a good sign.

"Yeah, maybe that," Neal agreed. He tried to sit up, but Peter stopped him.

"No, just stay down. The medics are on the way. Let them check you out."

Neal nodded slowly and then reached into his pocket, pulling out the detonator. "I think this is what you wanted."

"Yeah, good job," Peter said, taking the box. Medics came running up, and he got to his feet, giving them room to work. "Good job."

* * *

"Look at you, lying down on the job," Diana teased as she walked into the hospital room.

"Hey, I'm being held hostage!" Neal protested, holding up his arm with several wires and an IV tube attached.

"Live with it, Caffrey," Peter said.

"You could give me your gun again," Neal suggested. "I could make a break…"

Peter grinned. "Since when did you need a gun for that?"

"True," Neal said. "Look, I'm feeling fine. So can't I…"

"No, you can't," Peter said firmly. "You heard the doctors just fine. They want to keep you overnight for observation."

"Peter…"

"No."

"Hey, just so long as you're out for tomorrow night, right?" Jones said. "I mean, we've been practicing."

"What's tomorrow night?" Peter asked.

"I sort of haven't had a chance to ask Peter," Neal admitted. "The last couple of days have been kind of busy."

"We were talking about going back to that wine bar near me," Diana explained.

"It's open mic night again," Jones added.

"But outside of Neal's radius," Diana finished.

Peter looked over at his agents, and down at Neal. "Well, after what you did today, I'd probably be strung up if I said no."

"You should come, Peter," Jones said. "Bring Elizabeth."

"Gayle is coming," Neal said.

"Yeah, you can go," Peter said. "And I'll ask El."

"What about the truck today?" Neal asked. _What was it about a little concussion that made the medics pull him away from the scene before he knew what had happened?_

"The bomb squad was able to disarm the device," Peter answered. "Once they could get in for some closer x-rays and infrared. They said it wasn't even a very sophisticated device."

"But it had enough explosive punch to do a lot of damage if it had gone off," Diana said.

"Was anyone else hurt when the vest went off?" Neal asked.

"A few minor injuries," Jones replied. "But you were a lot closer than anyone else. Well, except for the guy wearing the vest, of course. Not much left of him."

"What about the second guy?"

"NYPD caught him at Grand Central, trying to get out of town," Peter reported.

Neal leaned back into the pillows. "So it's over?"

Peter considered his answer for a moment. "This round is over," he finally said.

* * *

They took over two tables in the back of the room, sliding them together to make one. Diana and Christie, Neal and Gayle, Peter and Elizabeth, Jones and his new girlfriend, Marsha.

With a wink, Jones made sure that Marsha did not sit next to Neal.

Except for a lightly bandaged forearm, a few assorted minor cuts and bruises on his hands, and a butterfly closure on one temple, Neal appeared none the worse for wear after his experiences the day before. He ordered select wines for the group – and a sparkling cider for Elizabeth.

And when the microphone was opened to the audience, he took his place at the piano and warmed up with no apparent problems. He and Jones started in on their first number, a jazz version of the Christmas Song.

Elizabeth leaned close to Peter, whispering in his ear. "Did you know he could do that?"

Peter gave one quick, firm shake of his head. "No." _All these years and Neal could still surprise him…_

They performed several numbers, holiday and non. Sometimes they both sang, and on others Jones handled the vocals while Neal concentrated on the keyboard.

No one else seemed willing to interrupt the duo, so they completed the set of songs they had practiced. Jones stepped down from the stage and Neal started to get up from the piano – but then he sat down again, his fingers running lightly over the keyboard before a familiar tune came out.

_"Somewhere, over the rainbow…"_

For most of the audience, it was simply a familiar song, performed well in terms of vocals and keyboard work. But when he got to the end…

_"If happy little bluebirds fly, away beyond the rainbow, why oh why can't I…"_

Only the people at that back table truly understood the wish behind the words.

It was one week before Christmas, and they still had no options to offer Neal – nothing to put him over the rainbow instead of back in prison or on the run.

* * *

Neal rolled to one side, pressing up against Gayle's back. He ran his finger down her shoulder, over her ribs, her hip…

Her breath caught, and she rolled to her back, looking into his eyes. "Can't a girl get some rest around here?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

She smiled, reaching a hand behind his neck. "No, not really," she admitted, pulling him close.

He didn't fight it, leaning in to kiss her. "Good, since it's our last night together."

"Neal…"

"Not saying the words doesn't change anything," he said softly.

"I can cancel this trip."

"No, you've had this planned for months, since before we met again." He paused for another kiss before continuing. "You're going to be in Egypt for almost eight months. You need to go back to Wyoming and see your family. That's what people do at Christmas."

"And what do you do at Christmas."

"Peter and Elizabeth have invited me."

"Are you going?"

"Maybe."

"Neal, you can't give up. There's still…"

He kissed her again, stopping the words. "I'm not giving up," he assured her when they came up for a breath. "Just being realistic."

"I'm holding out for a miracle of the season," Gayle said softly. "I'll be expecting a phone call on the first."

"I hope I'll be making one." The words were true and heartfelt, but at this stage he really couldn't let himself believe in them; there had been too many dead ends.

They made love again, silently, desperately, making a memory to sustain both of them.

And he managed to drop her off at the airport the next day, and make it home again, before he broke down and cried.

* * *

Peter spent Sunday away from his wife – and the football games, and he missed both. But he had an important task to complete. He put together his own report from Friday, and pulled in every other report he could find that included Neal's contributions. For good measure, he included the hospital notes detailing Neal's injuries, which the other man had turned over without questioning why Peter would want them.

On Monday morning he dropped the whole file on Julie Cole's desk. "If this doesn't help, nothing will," he told her.

After reading it, she agreed.


	15. End Game

The office holiday party was held on the Wednesday before Christmas. As usual, a group of junior agents had been tasked with planning the event. This year they had managed to squeeze quite a bit out of a rather meager budget – a wide selection of appetizers, sparkling lights and other decorations, a string ensemble playing holiday selections, a tree decorated with an international assortment of ornaments, and a seemingly endless flow of punch.

It wasn't official, but the senior agents somehow managed to overlook the spiked punch in the far bowl. Most of them even sampled it – making sure it wasn't poisoned, as one of the agents put it.

There was mistletoe as well, though the floor's high ceilings made it a problem to find a way to hang it. Jones solved the dilemma by liberating some miscellaneous supplies from cold case evidence. _Nothing with any fingerprints or DNA, as he explained._

One of his wire creations wound up around Neal's neck.

"Everyone's been waiting for this anyway," Jones explained as he adjusted the wire under Neal's collar, leaving the mistletoe hanging over his head.

"Everyone?"

"Oh, yeah." Jones grinned and leaned in, planting a big kiss right on Neal's lips.

Neal came up for air, a surprised smile on his face. "Jones, I never knew."

Jones just laughed, and then he was shunted aside as Marsha stepped up. "Clinton always said you were dangerous," she said with a wink.

"Oh, I am," Neal agreed as he leaned in to kiss her. It was a little less intense than the previous buss, and when he finished he leaned close to her ear. "You know you've got a pretty good guy there, right?"

"I do know," she whispered back, turning away to rejoin Jones.

"I like this so far," Neal said, grinning, as he pointed to the mistletoe.

"My turn then."

Neal turned to find Christie beside him. "I'm all yours."

She smiled and pushed him back against the nearest desk, stepping in close. And then she kissed him… _really_ kissed him…

"Wow," was all he could say when they parted.

"Lesbian doesn't mean oblivious," she said with a smile. "Besides, Diana told me you were a good kisser."

"She did?"

"I did," Diana confirmed. "I maybe didn't mind the flirting and the kissing as much as I said," she admitted.

"I figured you would have hurt me if you did," Neal replied.

"You're right." She stepped in, initiating the next kiss.

"Oh, Diana, we could have been so good together," Neal said when he finally caught his breath. "If only…"

She laughed and slapped his shoulder. "Yeah, maybe in the next life."

"I might hold you to that," he replied. _Except hopefully her life expectancy was a lot longer than his might be right now…_

They moved on, mingling amongst the other people from the office and their guests. For Neal, that meant a lot of kissing, made socially acceptable by that little piece of plant hanging over his head. _But he knew that for most of them, it was really a way of saying goodbye, and there were tears in a number of eyes. It made him feel good, even as his gut twisted. Fortunately, he was a master of hiding his own true emotions…_

At one point he turned around and found himself face to face with Hughes. He felt a little foolish just then, with the mistletoe bobbing over his head.

"Don't worry, I'm not kissing you, Caffrey."

"Thank you."

"We still have a week," Hughes said softly, his voice pitched just for Neal's hearing. "I want you to know I have not given up."

"Thanks for that too," Neal said. _And now there was a lump in his throat…_

* * *

Even some of the agents who had traditionally been opposed to Neal's presence seemed to have mellowed – though whether it was because of the holidays, or because they figured he'd soon be out of their hair, was unclear.

Ruiz actually admitted he had been wrong in assuming the worst about Neal – words that Neal had certainly never expected to hear come from the agent's mouth. _And he didn't even appear to have had much of the special punch yet either._

Neal shook his hand, and offered his sincere thanks for the admission.

Tony Lake offered something of an apology as well. Neal hadn't actually seen the agent since the day he'd almost been blown up – _the day he'd saved Lake's operation…_ Again, Neal was gracious, accepting the apology and the well wishes.

_And why not? Holding a grudge wasn't going to save him from whatever was going to happen in a week, and it certainly wouldn't keep him alive if he went back to prison. It didn't seem to offer much advantage if he did decide to run either._

Peter and Elizabeth were 'fashionably late' to the event, coming in after a late afternoon visit to the obstetrician.

Neal met them near the door and Peter stopped, a look of quizzical disbelief on his face. "_What_ is that over your head?"

"It's mistletoe, Peter."

"You're supposed to kiss him," Diana said, suppressing a giggle.

Peter shook his head. "I am not kissing you."

Neal put on his best pouting look. "Peter, after all we've been through? Jones kissed me."

"I did," Jones confirmed. "Peter, it's tradition."

A chant of _KISS KISS KISS_ rose in the background.

Peter's jaw was set, and he was shaking his head – until Elizabeth nudged him forward. "It is tradition, Peter," she said, trying not to laugh.

Neal was trying to keep a smile off of his face too, but really, the way Peter was scowling and squirming, it was hard to do.

Peter finally squared his shoulders, stepped in, and planted a quick peck on Neal's cheek before nearly jumping back.

"That's it?" Neal asked, arms spread and lifted in disappointment. "That was kind of wimpy, Peter. And after all we've meant to each other..."

"It was wimpy," Elizabeth agreed. "But maybe I can make up for it."

Neal offered her a smile – genuine, gentle – as she stood in front of him. "You are absolutely glowing," he said softly.

She smiled back. "I think this motherhood thing agrees with me."

"You'll be the best."

The smile stayed as she stepped in for her kiss. He let her lead, and it was deep, long…

"Whoa!" He leaned back, surprised – and by more than the kiss.

Elizabeth had her hand on her abdomen. "She has been getting pretty active recently."

"She?"

"It's a girl. We just found out today." Elizabeth reached for his hand, bringing it to her…

He could feel the baby moving, and it was an incredible experience. _Which just highlighted the fact that he wouldn't be there…_ "A girl, that's great," he managed to whisper. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Neal."

A few other people came up to offer congratulations, which let him slip away. _Which was good, because he could feel the façade starting to crack._ He turned toward the door…

"Hey, where are you going? We just got here."

Neal turned back, forcing a smile. "Bio break, Peter," he said with a shrug. He didn't wait for a reply, simply pushed through the door.

_And as soon as he was out of sight of the people in the office, he was all but running. He couldn't reach the restroom fast enough, but finally he was there, and fortunately it was empty as he ripped the mistletoe off and shut himself into the last stall…_

_The façade broke completely, and he started to shake. The tears came and he couldn't stop them, and it wasn't fair. He'd done everything asked of him, and it just wasn't fair…_

He heard the restroom door open, and he knew whose footsteps were out there.

"Neal?"

_Deep breath…_ "Really, Peter, I've been doing this by myself for a lot of years. I don't need help." _Hopefully that came out as light as he had intended._

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Well, you may have just gotten here, but I've already had quite a bit of punch." He took a few more deep breaths, running his hands over his face. Then he flushed the toilet, took one more deep breath, and opened the stall door. "Why wouldn't I be all right?" he asked, moving to the sink.

Peter hesitated, seeming to consider his answer. "No reason, I guess."

Neal busied himself washing his hands, finally splashing some water on his face. It helped him regain control, and he looked up again, his smile back in place. "This is really touching, Peter. Especially since you wouldn't kiss me."

"Yeah, well, you lost your mistletoe crown anyway," Peter said, pointing at the floor.

Neal dried his hands and picked up the mistletoe. "I think I've kissed everyone anyway," he said. "Maybe you'd like to wear…"

"No," Peter said quickly, taking a step back and raising his hands. "I would not like to."

"You're just no fun, Peter."

"It's who I am, buddy."

_Buddy… That almost led to another crack, but he managed to control it, and keep his carefully crafted façade in place. _

"Don't change, Peter," Neal said softly. And then he opened the door and walked out.

* * *

"You do realize that many people would insist that you are certifiably crazy, right?"

"Thanks, Moz. That makes me feel good." Neal paused for a sip of wine and then stepped back studying the painting he was putting the finishing touches on.

"It's not supposed to make you feel good," Mozzie replied. "It's supposed to make you stop and think about what you're doing."

"I know what I'm doing, Moz."

"Of course you do," the other man said, though his tone indicated total skepticism.

"There are still eight days to go."

"Assuming the Suits don't change the schedule."

"Moz…"

"Neal, look at the facts. They _tell_ you that the release agreement is void at the end of the year, letting you _think_ you know when they're coming. But since you _have_ escaped a supermax…"

"Special circumstances," Neal said.

"Whatever. They know you're an escape risk."

"Peter would tell me."

"Assuming that _they_ would tell _him._"

"You're always such a comfort, Moz."

"Someone has to tell it like it is."

Neal set his glass down and picked up a brush, making a small adjustment on the canvas.

With a sigh that clearly said he thought Neal was being an absolute fool, Mozzie walked around to the other side of the easel. "That may truly be some of your best work," he admitted. "Ever."

"Thanks, Moz." _He had to admit, he was pretty pleased with it himself. The other canvases, already complete, wrapped, and set in the corner, had turned out well too, even if he did say so himself._

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," Neal said, setting his brush down again. "I really don't think they'll do anything on the holiday."

"You hope."

Neal just nodded.

"Have you decided what you're going to do yet?"

"No, Moz, I honestly haven't."

* * *

'_Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house…_

For some reason the lines of Clements' famous Christmas work were running through his head as Neal made his way silently down the stairs. At the Burke house, however, there were definitely no mice stirring – just him.

And Satchmo, he amended, as the dog padded up to greet him at the bottom of the stairs.

Actually, it was already Christmas morning – the clock on the stereo read 1:15.

Christmas Eve had been a quiet affair, a simple dinner with Peter and Elizabeth. He'd done his absolute best to be a good guest, supplying the wine and the sparkling cider Elizabeth liked, and making conversation like he hadn't a care in the world.

The Burkes knew better, of course, but they played along. No one wanted to talk about what might be happening a week from then.

He'd been invited to stay the night, and join them for Christmas Day as well, when some of Elizabeth's family would also be there. But he kind of thought that might be pushing even his skills at maintaining a con to the max, or beyond.

Besides, Christmas was for family, and he should let them have the time together.

He'd brought in a few small gifts the day before, and they were under the tree that sat in one corner of the living room. But he had one more to bring in.

Opening the door carefully, he slipped outside and down to the curb. He'd borrowed June's Bentley – with permission, as he'd pointed out to Peter – and he made his way to the car now.

Package in hand, he let himself silently back into the house and put the present in place. Then he knelt down, hands scratching Satchmo's ears, as he buried his face against the dog's neck.

"Take care of them, Satch," he whispered.

He stayed there a bit longer – longer than he had planned, for sure. But, just like Santa, he had other deliveries to make, and he couldn't stay.

He got to his feet, his knees feeling a little shaky as he paused, looking around the comfortable downstairs where he had spent so much time.

Then he let himself out the door, locking it behind him, got into the car, and drove slowly away.

* * *

Elizabeth yawned as she pulled on her robe and tied the belt. A quick glance back at the bed confirmed that Peter was still sound asleep. _Good thing she had a fairly reliable internal alarm clock in her head for things like this, so she hadn't had to set the actual alarm. And maybe she could still catch a little more sleep once she had the turkey in the oven_.

There was no sound from the guest room either, she noted, as she walked into the hall. Hopefully she could keep from waking either Peter or Neal while she worked.

Reaching the stairs, she paused, puzzled. There was a glow coming from the living room. Going down partway, she realized the lights on the tree were lit. _But she remembered them being off the night before – didn't she?_

She reached the bottom of the stairs, turned toward the tree – and gasped.

_So much for not waking Peter,_ she thought as she hurried back up the stairs and into the bedroom, shaking his shoulder.

"Huh?"

_He was always so brilliant when woken out of a deep sleep._ "Peter, come downstairs."

"El, is something wrong?" He was trying to get up, but seemed caught up in the blankets.

She helped him get untangled. "You just need to come downstairs and see something."

He pulled his robe on and slid his feet into his slippers and followed her down the stairs. Elizabeth moved to one side when they reached the bottom and pointed.

They approached slowly, both of them just staring.

There, on an easel, sat a large portrait – their wedding portrait to be exact. Nearby, on the end table, was the photo that had served as the inspiration, as well as a note.

_I borrowed the photo when Elizabeth showed me the wedding photos._

_(Yes, __borrowed__, Peter – it's been returned!) I hope you like the portrait._

_Merry Christmas! NC_

"Oh, Peter, it's beautiful," Elizabeth said softly, a catch in her voice.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, though whether it was more to steady her or himself he wasn't sure. "It is," he agreed.

They stood that way for a long time, holding each other, looking at the portrait that so elegantly captured the joy of their wedding day.

Finally, Peter pulled away and went upstairs. He knocked on the guestroom door, called out Neal's name, and finally went in.

The bed was made, everything in place, as if no one had even been there.

* * *

Diana found the note when she got up. It had been slipped under the door during the night.

_Look outside the door._

She checked the security peephole, but there was no one in the hallway. And really, it was earlier than most people would be up anyway. She had just always been an early riser.

She opened the door, and found the package.

Unwrapping it at the kitchen table, she caught her breath.

_It was the bridge scene that Neal had drawn in the hotel room…_

A note fluttered to the floor and she picked it up.

_You asked for an original Neal Caffrey work, so here it is._

_I'd never told anyone else about that bridge, but I'm glad I told you._

_Merry Christmas! NC_

"Oh, Neal…"

* * *

Jones found a similar note when he got up off the couch that morning. His mother was visiting and he'd given her the bed, but even sleeping that close to the door he hadn't heard anything.

He unwrapped the package, revealing a portrait of himself behind a microphone, wearing his _jazzy_ beret, and obviously totally engrossed in a song.

There was a piano in the portrait as well, but no pianist at the keyboard.

He was still staring at the painting when his mother got up a good while later and claimed the portrait of her baby boy as her own.

* * *

Neal stood on the balcony, looking out over the city. The late December weather was really too cold to make it comfortable out there, but he was well aware that his opportunities to enjoy this view were dwindling.

_He wondered when the Marshals would show up the following week. At the stroke of midnight as the year changed, or would he have a few hours to savor the New Year? He guessed he should be prepared either way._

_Which meant that he'd better decide what he was going to do soon. _

The knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts and back to the present. June was out of town, visiting her children, and Mozzie would have simply let himself in. So…

"Peter."

"You left without saying goodbye."

"I think I sort of did say goodbye," Neal countered, stepping back to let the other man in. "Just not exactly in words."

"It's a beautiful portrait," Peter said. "It made El cry." He paused a moment. "Me too," he added softly.

"I wanted you to have something special."

"An original Neal Caffrey work. You always said you weren't any good at that."

"Maybe I just hadn't found the right subject."

Peter just nodded and then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small package. "You also left without your presents," he said. "Most of them are still under the tree."

"I really don't need much right now, Peter," Neal said softly. _Considering that in a week's time he'd probably either be back in prison or on the run…_

"Open this one," Peter replied.

Neal took the package and, hands shaking, tore the paper off. "Peter…"

"That's something you just might need."

Neal looked down at the item in his hand – the electronic key to his tracking anklet. "Peter, I can't let you do this."

"It's been on my keychain for a while now," Peter said. "As you well know." Neal gave a slight nod, so he continued. "I don't know what you're planning to do, and I'm not asking you to tell me. But it certainly would have been easy for you to lift my keys and take that, without me knowing."

Understanding hit him, and Neal nodded. "Yeah, that would have been easy."

"If you use the key, Neal, that's the story I'll have to tell. That you managed to steal it."

"Of course. I mean, I'm a thief. But they might not believe you."

"They won't be able to prove otherwise," Peter replied firmly.

"Peter…"

"Keep it close, just in case."

Neal took a deep breath and nodded, closing his hand over the key.

"Now, let's talk about you slipping out in the middle of the night," Peter said.

"I really think that's best for everyone. I mean, you have family coming over."

"We invited you too, Neal."

"You'll have enough going on."

"Help me out here, buddy. It's El's mother. Her older sister, with three girls. And her younger sister, with two girls."

"You're the only guy, huh?"

"Except for Bobby, who's two months old."

"Peter…"

"Let me put it another way, Neal. If I don't come back with you in tow, El has promised to come and get you herself. And she has made it clear there will be dire consequences if she has to leave her dinner preparations to do that."

"How dire?"

"I don't want to find out."

"I think this might qualify as blackmail, Peter."

"Not on Christmas."

"There's a holiday exception?"

"Oh, yeah."

Neal finally gave in and smiled. "All right, I'll get changed."

* * *

The week after Christmas was… strange, Neal decided.

Some people at the office could barely even look at him, while others tried to be overly friendly. He wasn't sure which one was harder to take.

Those closest to him tried to keep things as normal as possible, but that was a difficult task because there was nothing normal about the circumstances.

There were no urgent new cases, so Peter set his team to reviewing what they had tried – and looking for any possibilities they had overlooked. They dug deep into old cases, both those from the White Collar unit and from Neal's _alleged _past. He suggested a few things to look into – with the clear stipulation that he was only providing hypothetical situations, not admitting to anything.

In desperation, Peter even asked Wendy Leone, his friend at the US Attorney's office, what would happen if Neal was charged with a new crime. Could they work out a probation agreement on the new charge, without touching the old sentence? Unfortunately, the federal sentencing rules didn't allow her to bypass procedures like that.

Jones suggested that Neal might qualify for witness protection based on one of the cases he had worked on. Without being able to show an active threat from one of the main players, though, the word from the marshals was that he wouldn't qualify. Diana pursued trying to get Neal assigned to a prison far, far away, in the hopes that his name would not be as well known. But it appeared that the kill switch in the system stopped that inquiry as well.

Peter tried, again, to get the technology team to look into the flag that appeared on Neal's name, but apparently they received the same flag and followed it, with the result that no one followed up. He even brought in one of the Cyber Crimes unit's specialists – AKA, a hacker – but Charlie824 (he only used his screen moniker) had no better luck than Mozzie and his sources.

Neal gave serious consideration to Mozzie's suggestion to kill Neal Caffrey.

_Mozzie had pointed out that Neal had plenty of aliases. If necessary, they could create a brand new one. And Mozzie promised he could have complete documentation – social security number, driver's license, passport, credit cards – within a few hours. Alive and free under a new name was better than any of the alternatives they had considered, right?_

It was tempting, Neal admitted to himself, especially late at night when he was alone and had nothing to do _but_ think. The problem was, he liked being Neal Caffrey – especially the Neal Caffrey he was becoming now. And really, even with a new name, he'd still lose what he most desperately wanted to hang on to. He couldn't expect his friends to lie, and risk their jobs, to pretend they didn't know him. Which meant that he wouldn't be able to stay in New York, since someone would wind up giving him away. And if he couldn't keep his friends – something he had discovered was the most precious commodity he'd ever had in hand – there was little reason to lose his name. If he had to run anyway, there was no sense in killing off his true self.

So, yes, he gave it serious consideration. But Neal Caffrey wouldn't die – at least not yet.

The question of prison or running continued to weigh on him as well. Sometimes he was sure he wanted to take his chances on surviving seventeen months inside, and in return, hopefully, have something of his current life to return to.

Other times, he knew he had no chance of surviving that long inside, and his only choice, if he wanted to live, was to run from everything he held dear here.

At one point he decided to try an experiment to see if he should revise his refusal to accept the relative protection of administrative segregation. He gathered a few books and other items he knew he'd be allowed to have in his cell and shut himself in the bathroom. He tried to read, and then he tried thinking about maybe getting a visit from someone to break the boredom, and he tried to read again…

He made it less than two hours before he was scrambling for the door, breathing hard. _And that was even though he had known he could open the door at any time…_

No, ad seg was definitely out.

In deference to Mozzie's paranoia – and his own inability to make a decision – he took to wearing a money belt that final week of the year. He had enough cash to get out of the city, the state, the country. He also had a passport, and the key to the tracking anklet.

Mozzie replenished some old accounts, and saw to the filling of a few strategic stashes, just in case.

The pressure, and the decision he faced, finally took their toll. When he was supposed to be reviewing old files, his attention wandered to his own problems until he could barely recognize what was even in the file, much less identify any useful information that had been missed.

Somehow, Peter didn't seem to mind.

Peter, Jones, and Diana took him out to lunch each day, picking places they knew were among his favorites. Hughes joined them on Friday, picking up the tab at a very trendy, very expensive new restaurant. By then, Neal's gut felt so twisted into knots that he could barely swallow. _He wondered if this was what it felt like, to be on death row, and face that final meal… _But he forced himself to eat, and his outward façade of calm remained in place.

* * *

Friday night arrived, and with it the party at June's. She had spared no expense, telling Neal that the house hadn't seen a good party since Byron passed away, and she was going to do it up right.

June was the gracious hostess, welcoming everyone to her home. She alternated between greeting people at the door, and making sure that everyone saw the new portrait of her with Samantha that hung over the mantle in the parlor. The painting had been waiting when she got home two days earlier.

For Neal, it almost seemed as though some of the pressure had passed, now that he was so close to the deadline. At some point tonight something would tip the scales in favor of waiting for the marshals or running. In a lot of ways it would be a relief just to decide, one way or the other._ And there was a bag of essentials waiting by the back door, just in case…_

Despite the number of FBI agents invited, Mozzie had agreed to attend. And he had promised to run interference – if needed.

Neal put on his game face and mingled.

Still, for a party, it was a subdued affair…

And the clock ticked steadily on toward January 1st.

* * *

Traffic was, fortunately, very light as she made her way through the streets in this unfamiliar part of town. Of course, everyone who was partying was already there – and the rest of the city was probably ensconced somewhere warm, watching the scene in Times Square on the television, waiting for the ball to fall.

That's where she would have been herself, if this hadn't come up.

There were a lot of cars around the house, and she had to park a block away, hurrying through the cold darkness to the door. A uniformed maid let her in and she quickly scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face…

"Peter!"

He turned at the sound of his name, excusing himself from Elizabeth's side when he saw who it was.

"Julie?"

"It came through," she said, holding up a large manila envelope.

Hands trembling, he took it, opened the clasp, and pulled out the contents…

Halfway through the first page he actually started breathing again. "This is for real?" he asked, voice shaking as much as his hands had been.

"It was faxed over from my contact in the Office of the Pardon Attorney about half an hour ago. The actual document will come by courier tomorrow."

Peter looked up at the clock – five minutes to midnight. "Talk about cutting it close."

"It was signed earlier today," Julie said, pointing at something on the page. "Along with quite a few others. Then it had to be recorded…"

"It's here, that's all that matters. And the rest of what we talked about?"

"All in there."

Peter nodded, scanning the room. "We need to find Neal."

* * *

He was standing alone in the back hallway, staring at the duffel bag waiting there, when he heard his name being called. A quick look at his watch confirmed that it was only a few minutes until midnight.

_Right, time to make an appearance for the midnight toast. But he wondered, with his release agreement officially void, was he considered a fugitive when the clock finished striking twelve…_

He stepped back into the parlor, where it seemed everyone had gathered, and picked up a glass of champagne.

_Was that Julie Cole standing near Peter? He hadn't realized she had been on the guest list. Not that he minded at all – she had certainly tried to help._

_And why did Peter suddenly look like the proverbial cat that ate the canary…_

Peter was tapping a fork against his glass for attention.

_Good thing June only believed in using real glasses and silver, Neal thought. Plastic simply wouldn't have done the job._

Peter set his glass and fork down and held something up. "I have some news to share," he said, and he cleared his throat before starting to read. "By order of the President of the United States, Neal Alan Caffrey is hereby pardoned for all crimes and misdemeanors previously prosecuted or committed under the laws of this country. Effective this 31st day of December…"

The hushed silence that had filled the room when Peter started to speak changed to a buzz of whispers as the impact of those words started to sink in.

Neal found himself pushed forward, until he was face to face with Peter. "A pardon?" he asked, still not quite believing.

"Yup, a pardon," Peter confirmed, handing Neal the papers. "It was Julie's idea."

"It was such a long shot," she said. "That's why we never said anything. I think your actions a couple of weeks ago really pushed it over the top. But they like to do these last minute, end of the year. It really just came through."

"So what happens now?"

"It's a pardon. You're free and clear. There's something else in that packet for you to read and consider. But that can wait." Peter reached for his glass of champagne again and lifted it in a toast. "Happy New Year, Neal."

As others in the room echoed that sentiment, the grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, stately peal on the hour, ringing in the New Year.

Jones started a chorus of Auld Lang Syne, and around the room the guests joined in…

Except for one, who stood as if rooted where he was, staring at the words on the paper in his hands.

* * *

It was nearly an hour later before Neal had a chance to look at the rest of what was in the envelope. Not that he minded, of course. Once the shock wore off, he was perfectly happy to talk, and sing, and play June's piano.

But there was finally a lull as guests started to depart, and he flipped through the pages…

_Wow._

There was no other way to describe his reaction, despite his rather prolific vocabulary. He could only imagine what words Mozzie might use when he shared this bit of information.

_It was definitely something to think about…_

* * *

It was almost another hour until the house cleared. Peter and Elizabeth were the last to leave, but none of them really seemed to have the words to sum up what had happened.

Amid hugs, and tears – this time of relief and happiness – he agreed to a late lunch at their home later that day.

Finally, he found himself back in his apartment. He closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor as he fumbled for his phone in the dark.

He keyed the contact list, found the name he wanted, and hit the send button.

"Hi Gayle. Did I wake you? Yeah, it's already the next year here. And close for you, right? Happy New Year to you too. Listen, I have some news…"


	16. Epilog

**_A/N: Thanks for sticking with the story to the end!_**

**_

* * *

_**

Peter eased himself down the steps of the auditorium at Quantico, leaning heavily on his cane. At least he had progressed from the crutches he'd been relegated to using until just over a week earlier – that certainly would have made the steps even harder to master.

It was interesting being back in this place, where his career with the FBI had begun – lo these many years ago. Very shortly, the next group of academy hopefuls would come into this room to begin their classroom work, to find out who had what it took to wear the FBI badge.

In some ways, he regretted being here. If he hadn't been shot in the line of duty the previous month, he'd still be in New York, tracking down white collar criminals. But all it took was one case to go wrong, even in a relatively safe unit like white collar. And that had been exactly what had happened.

Fortunately, he was making progress on his recovery. That progress was coming at a much slower pace than what he had hoped for, though the doctors seemed to think the speed of his recovery was just fine. But he still had a ways to go before the medics would sign him off as fit for duty again.

The inactivity was driving him crazy.

Oh, sure, he had physical therapy appointments several times a week, and exercises he was assigned to do in between. El had come up with a variety of projects around the house that didn't involve much walking, and he was working his way through the list. And occasionally Jones or Diana or one of the other agents would call and ask for an opinion.

It just wasn't enough – or at least, not enough of what he needed. He needed to feel useful, needed to solve crimes. He needed the work that made him feel fulfilled; the work that had filled a huge gap in his life that had appeared in January.

Fortunately, Hughes had come up with an answer. There was a new class of recruits at Quantico, and the instructors would love to have a senior agent with Peter's closure record come and do a presentation to the eager recruits. He could also run some seminars on white collar crime – what it was, and how best to capture the perpetrators.

_Well, the best way was to find an unexpected ally in a former master thief and con man, get him on your side, and watch that closure rate soar…_

That had been the ulterior motive in Hughes' attempts to get Peter installed, on a temporary basis, at the academy. They were both wondering if a certain former master thief and con man, pardon in hand, would accept the slot he had been offered in this class. Had his time as a consultant done the trick and convinced him to join the Bureau in an official capacity – or did the total silence over the last few weeks mean that he had slipped back into a life of crime…

Recruits were starting to file in now, taking seats around the room. Peter stood up a little straighter, looking around – trying not to appear too anxious.

Some of the new people were in suits, dressed to impress. Others were wearing Bureau sweat suits; he'd noticed a number of them already out testing themselves on the obstacle course earlier.

But so far he didn't see the face he was truly hoping to find…

"Nice cane."

_That voice…_ Peter turned quickly – too quickly on his bad leg, which gave out under him. He started to fall, but strong, familiar hands caught him. "Neal!"

Neal grinned, hanging on until Peter was balanced again. "How's the leg?"

"Getting better. Probably still a few weeks before they let me back in the field."

"See what happens when I leave you alone for a few weeks?"

Peter laughed. "Yeah, that must be it. No one else to watch my back."

"You didn't get shot while I was there."

"True. There might have been a few other contributing factors though."

Neal waived that off. "How did you like the chocolates?"

"Swiss, very nice. And the Red Cross packaging was a nice touch."

"I thought so."

"El had to smuggle them into the hospital past the nurses."

Neal laughed. "I knew Elizabeth had it in her."

"So what happened to you? I mean, January 2, and you were just gone."

"Didn't you get my postcards?"

"Sure, starting the week after you left. Paris, Munich, Prague, Milan, Geneva, Barcelona, Athens, Cairo. It was like a travelogue or something."

"Well, I had a lot of lost time to make up for."

"The card from Cairo was dated almost five weeks ago. No one heard from you since."

"I've been out on an archeological dig site – kind of remote."

"Gayle?"

Neal nodded. "I was just going to visit for a few days. But then she put me to work…"

"Got wrapped up in it, huh?"

"Oh yeah. I spent most of the last few weeks on my hands and knees, brushing away sand a grain at a time." He paused, grinning. "It never felt so good to hurt so bad."

"I'm sure seeing Gayle again helped with that."

"Oh, definitely."

"And now you're here," Peter said, his voice rising to almost make that a question.

"You didn't think I was going to show up, did you?"

Peter shrugged, a little guiltily. "I wasn't sure," he admitted. "You never said anything…"

"I confirmed to the academy."

_Something Peter, admittedly, had never thought to check._ "I just figured you'd tell me. And you have a clean slate with the pardon. You could have done anything."

"You were injured," Neal explained. "I figured you had enough on your mind. And, out on the site, even satellite phone coverage was kind of limited."

"No daily mail service either, I guess."

"The camels were kind of busy with other things."

"Well, you're here now," Peter said, reaching over to tug on the sleeve of the sweatshirt Neal was wearing – gray, with 'FBI' stenciled in big, black letters. "And looking good."

"Pretty stylish, huh?" Neal replied, holding his arms out.

"Well, not exactly a Devore, but it suits you. Obstacle course?"

"Yeah, figured I should give it a test run." Neal pointed out at the growing group of recruits. "I mean, I have five years on most of them." Seeing Peter's raised eyebrow, he corrected himself. "All right, ten years. Twelve."

"So how'd it go?"

"I held my own."

"Not worried?"

Neal grinned. "How many of them do you think have experience being chased across rooftops?"

"Probably not many," Peter admitted with a smile. "What about the classroom part?"

"You mean am I worried?" Neal shook his head. "I've already read most of the manuals. And I've done a lot of what they're going to teach."

"But you have to actually _abide_ by the manuals as an agent," Peter pointed out.

"I guess I'll have to adapt."

"Yeah, you will," Peter said. "And, uh, what about the guns?"

"Do you _like_ carrying a gun, Peter?" Neal asked, quite seriously, answering the question with one of his own.

"Not really. I wish I didn't have to," Peter replied. Then he pointed down at his injured leg. "But as long as the bad guys do, I guess it's part of the job."

"Well, I never carried a gun as a bad guy," Neal said. "But as one of the good guys, I guess that's something else I'll have to adapt to. You know I can use a gun if I have to."

"You never did explain that one. How someone who dislikes guns so much still knows them so well."

"No, I didn't."

Peter waited a moment, but it was obvious the explanation wasn't going to be forthcoming then either. _Neal would explain in his own good time, like everything else._ "So have you met some of your fellow recruits?"

"Probably about half. Seems like a good group overall." He grinned again. "Some of them are a little curious about how I already have an office assignment, even before classes start."

"Do you have a problem with that assignment?"

"New York, working with you?" Neal shook his head. "You're right, with the pardon I could have done anything. But there's no place else I'd rather be, and no one else I'd rather be working with," he answered honestly. "Unless you have a problem with it, of course."

Peter shook his head. "Nope, I'm looking forward to having my partner back." He paused, offering a grin of his own. "Of course, you'll be a probie."

Neal's eyes narrowed. "I already know how to get coffee, Peter."

"Oh, that only scratches the surface of a probie's duties!"

"I can still ask for reassignment," Neal warned.

"June's holding the guest room for you," Peter said. _"Same rate as before." Kind of like dangling the proverbial carrot…_

"Well, maybe I'll give it a shot working with you then." Neal's smile was soft, his gaze focused on something far away when he continued. "Gayle and I were talking about finding someplace in between Ithaca and New York, where we could meet on weekends."

"You're a goner, buddy."

"Yeah," Neal admitted softly. "So how is Elizabeth?"

"Good, she's good. Getting big," Peter said, holding his hands in front of his stomach. "But everything looks good with the baby, and she's due next month."

"That's great."

"El's coming to DC this weekend. She's going to be so happy to see you – if you can work us into your busy social schedule, that is."

"I don't know – am I allowed to socialize with the teachers?"

"This isn't high school," Peter said, trying to sound stern, but unable to keep the smile off his face and out of his voice. "Anyway, I'm more of a guest lecturer."

"Then I'll pencil you in on my calendar," Neal promised.

There were still so many things Peter wanted to say, to ask – but the academy leader was calling the class to order. "Can we have dinner tonight?"

Neal nodded. "Sure. I'll meet you at your hotel at 7:00? The restaurant there is good."

"Yeah, it is… Wait, how do you know where…" Peter paused, shaking his head. _Of course Neal would already know where he was staying._ "Never mind – 7:00 it is."

Neal just smiled. "See you, Peter," he said, heading for a seat.

"Yeah, see you," Peter whispered, smiling. _He couldn't wait for a break so he could call El. And he knew he'd be smiling the rest of the day…_


End file.
